


Spellbound

by imriebelow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Camelot, Cornwall, Dark Ages, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, M/M, Magic, Romance, Tristan and Isolde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imriebelow/pseuds/imriebelow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long war between their two kingdoms, Prince James of Ireland is promised in marriage to King Alexander of Cornwall. To ensure peace he's willing to sacrifice his happiness, but his resolve is tested when he and Steve are reunited after many years apart.</p><p>A Tristan and Isolde AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you work on something for a long time, and eventually you just never want to see it again? I've been writing this since last June, and I'm happy to finally post it so it'll stop driving me crazy! (Thanks [ungoodgatsby](http://ungoodgatsby.tumblr.com)/[ungoodpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ungoodpirate/pseuds/ungoodpirate) for listening to me whine about writing and encouraging me to finish!)
> 
> Like any good Arthurian legend, the setting here is Post-Roman Britain/the Dark Ages with a happy mix of anachronisms and late medieval tropes sprinkled on top. Also this is one of those historical AUs where people are getting gay married all over the place and no one bats an eye.
> 
> (Also, spoilers: Though Tristan & Isolde is a tragedy, neither Steve nor Bucky die in this. I wouldn't do that to myself, haha.)

_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
_or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
_in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

 

t’s mid-morning when Steve arrives at Tintagel, the sun warming the air and a light fog receding out to sea. It’s spring, almost summer; yellow and purple flowers cover the rocky hills. Sheep graze by the edge of the road, and they must remind Steve’s horse of home: his ears perk up and he pulls a little at the reins. Steve lets him increase his pace, running a hand through the horse’s pale mane. It’s been a long ride. He’s eager to wash off the dust of the road and sleep in his own bed.

The grounds of Tintagel Castle sprawl along high cliffs, on a promontory connected to the mainland by a tiny strip of earth. The hills beyond are dotted with sheep and cattle, and smoke rises from homesteads scattered on the moor. The castle is a high-walled fort of stone and timber, surrounded by a small village. The isolated location has proved an ideal defense against raiders, and the sea is rough and dangerous to those not used to sailing it.

Steve is surprised by the amount of cheer with which he’s greeted at the castle gate, and even more surprised to find Lord Rumlow waiting for him in the courtyard, arms crossed.

“You were supposed to be back days ago,” Rumlow says. Of all the soldiers and servants around them, he alone is frowning.

“Sorry,” Steve says, dismounting. “I didn’t know there was a hurry.” He’d lingered in Exeter, the townsfolk so happy he’d solved their dragon problem that they’d insisted he stay for the spring festival. “What’s happened?”

“You haven’t heard?” Rumlow raises his eyebrows. “Ireland has surrendered.”

Steve inhales sharply. “Surrendered?”

“The queen sent a delegation; they’re here, now, agreeing on terms.” He waves off Steve’s attempts at unburdening his horse. “Let the grooms do it,” he says. “His Majesty wants you at the talks. God knows why.”

Taken aback, Steve lets Rumlow steer him into the castle, and into the great hall where the king and his council are meeting. Too late, he remembers his dusty, road-worn traveling clothes, and tries to brush himself off. A guard announces them: “Lord Rumlow and Sir Rogers, Your Majesty.”

Steve bows, his sight adjusting to the dim, smoky torchlight. The king is seated at the head of the council table beneath an enormous silk banner, the hydra-and-crowns facing the Irish delegation proudly.

“Steven,” Alexander, the king of Cornwall, says. “I’m glad you could finally join us.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Steve says. “My task took longer than I expected. I would have come back sooner if I’d known you wanted me.”

“Yes, of course,” the king says, a little indulgently. He waves a hand. “Be seated,” he says. “So we may continue.”

Steve takes his place in one of the heavy, carved chairs. He feels the attention of the Irish envoys on him, and when he returns their gaze he realizes he knows them. They’re the queen’s cousins, and they look far older than Steve remembers. White-haired and tall, they’re calm and dignified under the demands of the Cornish king, though their eyes flick to Steve occasionally.

Though Steve tries to listen to the negotiations, his attention keeps wandering back to the king, who’s sitting back in his chair smiling. Steve respects his king - he gave Steve a home when his family fled from Ireland, a family when his passed, and a knighthood to secure his future - but there is a glitter in his eyes and a triumphant set to his mouth that can only be described as ugly. Alexander Pierce has never been gracious in victory.

There’s a stir among the council, and it takes Steve several moments to realize what was said. When he does, it’s a cold shock: the king has requested the hand of the queen’s eldest child in marriage.

_Bucky._

“She has many children,” Alexander says. “Surely she can spare one.”

The delegates glance at each other, apprehensive. “Your Majesty,” one says. “I don't know if my queen will accept this.”

“Oh?” the king says. “Isn’t it she who came to me in surrender? Well, if she prefers war, war it is.” The councilmen murmur and the guards wrap their hands around their weapons. The Irish lords are tense and pale. War is no longer an option for them: plague has ruined the queen’s army. If fighting were to resume, Cornwall would overrun them.

The king smiles like a cat, satisfied. “It’s not such a terrible request. He would even have a familiar face at my court. Sir Rogers knew him as a boy - didn’t you, Steven?”

“I did,” he says. His heart stutters. Is this why Alexander wanted him here?

Recognition dawns in the envoys’ faces. “You were much smaller, then, Sir Rogers,” one says.

The king says: “You were close to him, isn’t that true?”

Steve’s mouth is dry. “Yes,” he says. “We were like brothers.” He’s no stranger to the concept of political marriage, but this is Prince James - _Bucky_ \- his first and best friend, bartered as a war-prize. Steve still thinks of him as the round-faced boy he left behind.

“Surely it is a small price to pay,” the king says. “For peace.”

The room is quiet, and Steve’s heart pounds in his ears.

“So be it,” the old lord says. He stands stiffly. “If your majesty would excuse us, we will return to our ship and bring the news of our agreement to the queen.”

The king, pleased, dismisses them. As the gathered men filter out, he beckons to Steve. When they are alone, he leans back and gives Steve a fatherly smile. “I saw your face when I mentioned marriage,” he says. “I hope I did not surprise you too much.”

“No, sir,” Steve says. “I just wondered - why now?” _Why him?_ Alexander’s wife passed many years ago and more than one conquered enemy have offered their daughters and sons in exchange for the king’s favor.

“Why not now?” the king laughs. “Don’t worry about your friend, Steven. I’m sure he will learn to be happy here. Now, tell me about that business in Exeter - I trust everything went well?”

Steve stumbles over the account, his enthusiasm about the experience lost. Unease has settled in the pit of his stomach, and when he finishes the telling he blurts out: “Sir, when it’s time - May I be the one to bring him here?”

The king steeples his hands and smiles. “Of course,” he says. “I would trust no one else.”

 

* * *

 

When news comes of the queen’s agreement, Tintagel springs into readying for a royal wedding. There’s a festival atmosphere: people are glad that the war with Ireland has finally ended and are eager for a reason to celebrate. Steve wants to get on his horse and ride somewhere far away from the commotion, but doesn’t want the king to forget his promise and send someone else to Ireland in his place. He spends most of his time training with the other knights, sparring, or breaking wooden dummies with his spear. Even there he can’t escape it; his fellow soldiers are all too eager to gossip about, as Rumlow calls him, the king’s “new bride.” Steve overhears more than a few lewd comments and grits his teeth, trying to resist turning his weapon on live targets.

The king sends for him frequently, and Steve always arrives in the great hall to find an army of tradesmen. The late queen’s chambers have been cleared out, and Alexander has commissioned dozens of workers: carpenters, smiths, jewelers, tailors, all to give his new prince trappings worthy of an emperor.

It should be a comfort to Steve, that the king appears to intend to treat Bucky well, but he worries that Bucky is no more to him than plunder to fatten his hoard. Alexander doesn’t know him, he tells himself. When he meets Bucky he’ll be sure to love him; how could anyone not?

The king is in a fine mood, and smiles broadly at Steve whenever he sees him, declaring: “Let no one say I don’t provide for him.”

“No one could ever say that, sir,” he says, and it’s true. Bucky will, at least, never lack for _things_ here.

It’s a relief when it’s finally time to go. Steve is dressed up in a set of fine new clothes, and is given a jeweled brooch with the king’s arms, which he pins next to the badge of St. George he always wears. He’s entrusted with an emerald ring, a betrothal gift for the prince.

Alexander sees him off personally. Even Zola, the Saxon magician and the king’s confidant, scuttles out of his workroom to make an appearance. As Steve boards the king’s ship, Zola flicks him with stinging powders and mutters about Irish witches. Alexander claps him on the back and wishes him a swift journey.

Steve touches the heavy weight of the ring in his pocket, praying that Bucky won’t hate him for this.

 

* * *

 

Pairs of strong oarsmen crew the king’s ship, and they largely ignore Steve as he huddles at the stern. The space is cramped and the sea-spray cold on his face. The oarsmen occasionally shout to one another over the sound of the green-and-gold banner snapping in the wind. The motion of the waves makes Steve sick, and he thinks about how much more pleasant it is to travel by land.

He gets some fitful sleep, and wakes to morning mist and the insistent crying of gulls, Ireland’s green coast on the horizon. They land at a coastal village, and the local fishermen watch Steve disembark with a wariness that’s not quite hostility. From there, he sets off on foot along the High King’s Road, toward Tara. He encounters few others on the road; the sickness that had taken his parents had finally made it’s way to Ireland and cut down many of her people. It was the main reason behind the queen’s surrender. While Steve welcomes the end of war between them, he can’t be happy at the losses suffered by people he still half-considers his own.

He walks for miles through a light rain before encountering a troop of riders in the queen’s colors. He shows them the badge with Alexander’s hydra, and they grudgingly put away their weapons and offer him a mount. The horse and the company make the rest of the journey pass swiftly, but he thrums with anxiety as they approach Tara. He’s going to see Bucky again, and he doesn’t know what would be worse: that Bucky will hate him or that he won’t remember him at all.

Steve’s companions usher him through the gates into a familiar courtyard that hasn’t changed since he last saw it. This castle was his family’s home for nearly twelve years; walking through it again feels like stepping back in time.

They bring him into the great hall, before the queen. Steve is frozen in heavy silence. The queen sits on her throne, silvered hair braided around her head like a crown. Her long dress sparkles with gold embroidery and her face is solemn and cold as a statue’s.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and the illusion breaks: she’s just Winifred, terribly human, a little more faded and careworn than he remembers. He bows.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” she says. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble in my house?”

“Ma’am,” he gulps, and her demeanor softens. She smiles and stands.

“Come here,” Winifred says, and embraces him. She feels small. The queen had been like a second mother to Steve, and his mother to Bucky. “I heard about your parents,” she says into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Sarah was such a good friend to me.”

Though Steve’s father had been Cornish, his mother was Irish, a minor noble in the queen’s retinue. Winifred implored her not to leave when the fighting between their kingdoms began, but Steve’s father had been adamant. Joseph Rogers felt the Irish sentiment turning against the foreigners among them. He was afraid for Steve most of all, who was half one and half the other. It had already made him a target for the other children of the castle, though Bucky had always defended him. Joseph decided they would be safer in his homeland, in the house of his distant cousin the king.

Winifred steps back, clasping his hands. She blinks away a little wetness in her eyes. “At least she got to see you grow into such a strong young man.”

“She missed you,” Steve says, his own voice thick. “I missed you - all of you.”

She squeezes his hands and gives him a bittersweet smile. “One of us in particular, I’ll bet.”

Steve admits: “I think about him all the time.”

The queen lets go of his hands and links her arm with his. “He’s in the garden,” she says. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes,” Steve’s voice cracks. He ducks his head and takes a breath. “Yes,” he says again, more firmly.

They go through hallways Steve once ran through as a boy half his current size, and emerge into the garden courtyard. He and Bucky used to play-fight here, all bruised knees and skinned elbows. It’s much the same as he left it. The air smells of rosemary and lavender, and there’s a soft humming of bees.

“You were a terrible child, but you were good for him,” the queen says, quiet and fond. She and his mother would sit outside and watch them - Steve waving a wooden sword as long as he was tall, Bucky chasing his sisters around the pillars. He always came running when Steve flagged or fell or couldn’t breathe. Steve would always be grumpy and ungrateful, embarrassed he couldn’t keep up.

The memories are so vivid Steve can almost see them. He pictures himself trying to walk the garden walls, scrawny and short-tempered. His parents, young and whole. Bucky, nine years old, blocking an imaginary sword with a practice-shield painted with the family colors: sable field, silver bend, three red stars.

Winifred lets go of Steve’s arm, breaking him out of his reverie. “James,” she calls, and Steve’s heart skips when he sees him.

Bucky’s sitting in the shade of a damson tree, holding a prayer book, fingers frozen in the act of turning a page. He’s staring at Steve.

His eyes are very blue.

“Steven?” he says. “Steve!” He drops the book, scrambling to his feet.

God, he looks - the same. Taller and leaner and more finely dressed, but the same bright eyes, full lips, and slow-dawning smile. He’s beautiful. Steve doesn’t know what to say. He has a sudden cold stab of insight: his reaction to this marriage isn’t simple concern for Bucky’s wellbeing.

He’s jealous.

_How can he ever be anyone’s but mine?_

“Bucky,” he says, and they move at the same time. They don’t so much embrace as throw themselves at each other.

“It _is_ you,” Bucky says. “No one ever calls me that anymore. I didn’t believe my uncles when they said you were at Tintagel.”

Steve says: “I can call you Your Highness, if you’d like.”

“Never!” he laughs. “ _Sir_ Rogers. I never thought I’d have to look up to meet your eyes! Are you under a spell? Will it wear off at midnight?”

Self-conscious, Steve rubs his neck. He had finally hit a growth spurt after leaving Ireland, and the potions and treatments of the old court magician had greatly reduced his illnesses. “Just the grace of God, I suppose.”

“Whatever it is, you’re - You look-” Bucky stumbles over his words. “You look to be in great health.” His hands find Steve’s and hold tight. “I missed you,” he says. “Every day.”

“I missed you, too,” Steve says, hugging him again, fiercely. “You have no idea how much.”

The queen makes a soft noise, and Steve startles, having forgotten she was there.

“I hope that you will stay with us for a few days, Steven,” she says.

“Of course I will,” Steve says. Once they go to Cornwall he might never get Bucky to himself again.

 

* * *

 

At the evening meal, Steve sits with the royal family at the high table. The oldest of Bucky’s sisters hug him and exclaim at how tall he is; the younger ones hang back, shy. They were little when he left. There’s another young woman at the table, with red dress and redder hair. Steve doesn’t recognize her.

“This is Natasha,” Bucky says, beaming at both of them.

Steve waits for a title or a surname, but gets none. Natasha gives him a sharp, cold stare. He feels a pang of worry. Were she and Bucky betrothed? He hadn’t even bothered to consider that Bucky might already be promised to someone.

“She’s a very good friend of mine, and to our family,” Bucky says. “Natasha, this is Steve - Sir Rogers, of Cornwall.” He adds, a little shyly: “I’ve told you about him before.”

“You have,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says to Steve, though her expression is still less than friendly.

Despite her chilly reception, Bucky’s sisters, at least, make him feel welcome. Rebecca, the crown princess, has grown tall and lovely and acquired a quick wit. She asks Steve questions about Cornwall, the state of trade and border disputes, and his thoughts on the Saxon invaders from the east. The younger princesses grow bored and turn the conversation to more exciting things, asking if Steve’s ever been to war or if he often wins at tourneys.

Gamely, he talks about skirmishing against Saxon raiders, hunting dangerous beasts in forests and caves, about contests of strength and skill against knights from faraway lands.

“Do you often win?” asks Tabitha, the youngest.

“Sometimes,” Steve says, trying to be modest. Bucky kicks his ankle under the table and grins at him.

Princess Mary pipes up: “Are you married, Steven?”

“No!” he says, too quickly, eyes wide. “No, definitely not.”

He changes the subject, asking the queen about her hounds, a passion of hers. She’s happy to comply, and Steve is glad to have the attention off of himself. He notices, though, that the royal family avoids talking about Bucky’s impending departure. None of the girls ask questions about King Alexander, or how Steve feels about the relationship between their kingdoms. He understands; it’s one more night they can spend in relative normalcy, as a family.

Princess Esther broaches the subject, once. She lays a hand on Steve’s and asks: “You will make sure he writes to us, won’t you?”

“If he’s allowed,” Natasha says.

Bucky fidgets a little, and when Steve turns, Bucky’s looking at him. Steve has the sudden, wild thought that they’re close enough to kiss.

“I’ll remind him every day,” he says, and the talks turns to other subjects. They don’t mention war, or marriage, or Cornwall again for the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he and Bucky go up on the castle walls. They perch on the battlements, examining the low, grey clouds.

“I hope my family wasn’t too overwhelming, yesterday,” Bucky says. “And I’m sorry that Natasha was so rude to you.”

“Is she like that a lot?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” he admits. “Worse, lately. She’s angry with me.”

“What for?”

Bucky sighs. “The - arrangement. The marriage. She doesn’t want me to go.”

Tentatively, Steve asks: “Are you and her - Do you have an understanding with her?”

“Oh, no,” Bucky says. “She’s my friend. But she thinks I should have fought harder against this.”

“She wants you to be happy,” Steve says, thinks: _I want you to be happy_.

“She does,” he says. “But I have to do it. If not me, it’ll be Rebecca or Mary or Esther. Or, God forbid, one of the little ones.”

“Buck,” Steve says, hesitates. “It won’t be so bad. He’s not - he’s not so terrible as you think.”

Bucky watches him with dark and shuttered eyes.

“He’s not a gentle person,” Steve says. “But he’s never been cruel to me.” He wants to reassure his friend, promise that his fiance is ideal, that Alexander will love and cherish him and make him happy. He owes it to Bucky to be honest. “When the fever took my parents, he could have sent me away, but he fostered me instead. He’s not sentimental. I don’t think he did it out of the goodness of his heart.”

Bucky listens, quiet and intent.

“The king said my father once saved his life in battle, so he owed us a debt. I sometimes wonder if he would have been less kind if he didn’t. He prizes people who are useful to him, and I’m sure I was nothing but a burden for many years.”

Bucky considers this. “Do you think he’ll be cruel to me?”

Steve seizes his hands. “I would never let him. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that,” Bucky says. “Though God knows you’ll try.”

“I will,” Steve says. “I’d rather die than see you hurt.”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth turn up, but he glances away. “Even after being apart all this time,” he says. “You would take my side, over his?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve says. He’s clutching Bucky’s fingers in a grip so tight it must be painful, but neither of them let go. “God, yes. You must know that. You know _me_ ,” he says.

“I do,” Bucky agrees. He meets Steve’s gaze honestly for a moment, but puts back on the smiling mask of bravado he’s been wearing for his family. “Even with _this_ on your face,” he says, poking at Steve’s beard.

He catches Bucky’s hand, unsure if he means to pull it away or hold it there. “Am I really so different?” he asks.

“No,” Bucky says, and his smile, this time, seems real. “I would know you anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

Steve drags out his time in Ireland for as many days as he can. Bucky and his family are grateful for it, though it becomes increasingly clear that they can’t put things off forever. He still hasn’t given Bucky the ring; the thought of seeing it on his hand fills him with dread.

One morning after prayers, Steve lingers in the chapel alongside the queen. They stand in silence for a while, Winifred with her hands clasped and head bowed. Steve’s eyes follow the trails of dust motes floating through the early summer light.

The queen takes a heavy breath. “I’m glad that you will be there for him,” she says. “It’s such a weight off my shoulders. His too. He was so happy to see you again. All these years - he never once stopped thinking about you.”

Steve quirks his mouth. “I thought he must have forgotten me.”

She laughs a little. “Never,” she says. “He talked about you all the time. Wondered how you were doing, if you were well. You made quite an impression on my son, Steven.”

He shuffles his feet. “He made an impression on me.”

“I prayed,” she says. “That he would not be alone, there. I know it is a lot to ask of you, of all people - Please, try to keep him out of trouble.”

He swallows. “I will do everything I can,” he says. “God help me.”

 

* * *

 

When Steve has retired to his room for the night, a knock on his door surprises him. Bucky is on the other side of it.

“Is something wrong?” Steve asks.

“No,” Bucky says. “I just wanted to see you.”

Steve lets him in, and they sit on the edge of the bed. Bucky seems on the cusp of saying something, but doesn’t; the silence between them stretches out, unwieldy. After a while he sighs. “You’ve gotten so big,” he says. “I never imagined you seeming so well.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Steve pretends to be affronted, and Bucky elbows him. He admits: “I never imagined it, either.”

“I’m glad, though,” Bucky says. “I was afraid you’d just waste away. Not much chance of that now, though. Do you still get sick?”

“Sometimes,” Steve says. “Not often. Not like I used to. Rain and hot weather make me cough, and I still don’t like the cold, but I haven’t been badly ill in a long time.”

“I’m glad,” Bucky says again, and Steve smiles to himself. He remembers how Bucky would flee his lessons to climb in Steve’s sickbed with an armful of handkerchiefs and toy soldiers. He would fall ill himself, staying around Steve during his worst winter fevers and summer colds.

“Sir Steven Rogers,” Bucky says, savoring it. “I thought you’d be Saint Steven by now. Your mother was always threatening to send you to a monastery.”

“They’d have kicked me out with a week,” Steve laughs.

“A day, more likely.”

“Whatever got me back to you faster,” Steve says, before he can stop himself. Bucky stares at him with dark blue eyes, and Steve’s heart flutters. With nervous fingers, he takes Bucky’s hand. “Buck,” he says. “Whatever happens, from now on - I’m going to be there with you.” He wishes he could go back and never leave Ireland, undo the war between them, or talk the king out of his demands. He wants to fix this. He wants-

Bucky laces their fingers together. “I know,” Bucky says shakily. He admits: “That’s just going to make things harder,” and kisses him.

At first, Steve is too startled to move. Bucky pulls away, stricken. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I won’t- I shouldn’t have-”

Steve’s hands reach out of their own accord and tug him back in. This is terrible, impossible. This is everything Steve never knew he wanted. Bucky’s mouth is soft and warm on his, and his hands tangle in Steve’s shirt. When they break apart for air, they rest their foreheads together, breathing hard.

“Buck,” Steve says helplessly, words dragging themselves out of him. “We can’t.”

“I know,” Bucky whispers. “I _know_. But there’s never been anyone for me but you.”

Steve takes his face in his hands, traces the line of his jaw. In the lamplight, Bucky is flushed, a desperate smile playing at the corners of his lips. He’s so beautiful. How could Steve have been so stupid, to not realize the depths of his own feelings for him?

Bucky kisses Steve again, and then again, and then puts his head on Steve’s shoulder, leaning heavily against him. “It’s not fair,” he says. “I prayed that you would come back to me. But you’re here, and I can’t have you.”

Steve combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You have me,” he says. “You’ll always have me.”

“Not the way I want to.”

“No,” Steve says, clutching Bucky tight. There’s nothing he can say to that. “But I did come back to you. I’m here, now. I’m here.”

They sit like that, wrapped up together. It’s a long time before Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath and speaks.

“I’m scared,” he says. “What if I’m not enough? We don’t have the men or the resources for another war.”

“You’re enough,” Steve says, heart twisting.

“What if he sends me back and asks for one of my sisters?” Bucky says. “How could I live with myself?”

“Buck,” Steve says. “James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve takes his face in his hands. “You are _beyond_ enough. The king is a fool if he doesn’t love you on sight.”

“Isn’t it stupid, though?” Bucky laughs brokenly. He wraps his arms around himself. “Why do I care? I don’t want to love him. I love you.”

Steve wants to hold him again, but knows if he touches him once more he’ll never stop. “I love you,” he says, and it’s dangerous, but he keeps going. “ _I love you_ , Bucky, I always have, and that won’t change. Even if we can never be together.”

Bucky rubs his face, trying to compose himself. “We shouldn’t put it off any longer,” he says. “We can leave tomorrow. My mother agreed.”

“Are you sure?”

His mouth twists, but he nods. “My family - We’ve already said our goodbyes. It’s time.”

Steve hunches his shoulders, worrying at the ring in his pocket. He takes it out and clutches it tightly in his fist. He has to give it to Bucky. He’s held onto it long enough. “This - I was supposed to give this to you when I got here,” he says, opening his hand. The ring is warm from being carried so close to his skin for so long. His voice catches. “A betrothal gift, from the king.”

Bucky stares at it. He makes no move to take it, and swallows, hard. “Put it on me,” he says.

“Bucky-”

“Please,” he says. “I want you to.”

With shaking hands, Steve slides the ring onto Bucky’s finger. Bucky shuts his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. He slips his hand out of Steve’s. He gets up, hovering like he wants to throw himself back into Steve’s arms and not let go, but pulls himself together and leaves without looking back.

 

* * *

 

They leave the next morning in a horse-drawn cart accompanied by a handful of guards. Bucky doesn’t take much with him, just a small chest. The sun is well overhead when they reach the coast. They’re dropped off, and Steve carries Bucky’s chest to the boat.

The king’s oarsmen call out to him in greeting, but Steve stops, squinting against the sun. There’s a young woman with them.

“Natasha?” Bucky gasps, and Steve recognizes her. She’s not wearing the embroidered gowns she had at court, but a servant’s plain garb, her wild red curls tucked under a veil.

“I’m coming with you,” she says, and stares at Steve defiantly. “Don’t think you can stop me.”

He puts the chest in the boat and raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the oarsmen says. “She showed up at dawn and refused to budge. I didn’t know how to remove her without causing a scene.”

“It’s fine,” Steve says. “She’s the prince’s - companion. Of course she’s coming with us.”

Bucky rushes forward and hugs her, almost lifting her off her feet.

“That’s enough of that,” Natasha says when she regains her balance.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, so quiet Steve barely hears him. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

She keeps her face blank, but there are small, concerned creases around her eyes. “You don’t know me very well if you thought that.”

When they board the ship, she takes Bucky’s hand and they huddle together in the cramped space, cloaks pulled tight against the sea spray. Steve tries to tamp down his envy, but can’t stop watching them, watching Bucky, as the ship sets sail and they leave Ireland behind.

 

* * *

 

They’re greeted with fanfare at the rocky landing below Tintagel. The king himself is there, and he offers a hand to Bucky, who takes it, allowing Alexander to help him out of the ship.

“James,” the king says. “I’d like to welcome you to your new home.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says stiffly. He pulls his hand back before Alexander can bring it to his lips to kiss. The king doesn’t seem bothered; he smiles and puts his hand on Bucky’s back, guiding him up the steep steps built into the cliff-side. The wind plucks at their clothes and hair, and Alexander leans in to say something quiet and private into the shell of Bucky’s ear. Steve burns. It’s a torture he hadn’t expected, seeing the king’s hands on what could have been his. What _isn’t_ his, his heart taunts, and never will be.

He’s knocked into and regains his balance to find Natasha next to him.

“Would you mind helping me get his things settled?” she asks, tone carefully demure, stare boring into him.

“Of course,” Steve says, a little thrown by her demeanor. They head up the steps and the wildflower-freckled hill, and go into the castle. He leads her to the queen’s chamber - Bucky’s now - to find the king and Bucky already there.

“Ah, Steven,” the king says. “I’m giving His Highness a tour. Do make sure you get some rest before the wedding tomorrow.”

“I will, sir,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t look at Steve as Alexander ushers him away.

Natasha has opened Bucky’s chest and is digging through it.

“What-” Steve starts, and she pulls out a little green bottle, half-filled with dark liquid. “What is _that_?” he asks.

“A love potion,” she says. “James wants us to dispose of it for him.”

“A love potion,” he repeats.

Her grasp is tight around the bottle. “He asked me to make it for him,” she says. “I told him it was a stupid idea, but he thought it would make things easier.”

“He asked you-” Steve says, “He asked _you_. You’re a witch?”

“A sorceress,” she says.

“There’s a difference?”

Her mouth quirks. “Respectability. A witch wears rags and lives in the woods. A sorceress lives in a castle and wears pearls. I’ve been both, and I must say the second is more pleasant.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, though. As far as anyone here is concerned I’m only James’ lady-in-waiting.” She taps her nails against the glass, then thrusts it at Steve. “Make a circle of iron, and break the bottle inside of it. It’ll lose its power.”

“Iron-”

“Nails, tools, anything,” she says. “Look, Rogers. I don’t like trusting people I’ve just met, but James thinks quite highly of you, so I’ll make an exception. Go now; I don’t want to be caught with it.” She hesitates. “And anyway - you’re the reason he doesn’t want it anymore. I thought you should know.”

Steve goes. The bottle is warm in his hand, and he takes it to the farrier’s, which is thankfully empty. He doesn’t know what excuse he would have come up with to send away nosy apprentices. He gathers up nails and bits of scrap, and even some iron filings, shaping them into a circle on the floor. The low light from the forge catches in the potion and glitters, mesmerizing. How frightened Bucky must have been to resort to this. How close Steve came to losing his heart.

A clatter startles him out of his thoughts, and he dashes the bottle against the stones. Sparks fly up against the boundaries of the iron circle, then die out. A rat, the source of the noise, scurries into a corner.

“Sir!” the farrier comes in. “Is everything alright?”

Steve stares at the puddle and broken glass. The color of the liquid evaporates, leaving it clear as water. “It’s fine,” he says, trying a small smile. “I just dropped something. Sorry to bother you.” He rushes off, blindly, half-hoping to run into Bucky and the king, and half-dreading it. He finds himself in the stables, where he saddles his horse and climbs on. He rides away from the castle, and tries to lose himself on the green, windy heath.

 

* * *

 

Steve lurks in the crowded royal chapel, numb and exhausted. He barely slept, and wonders how Bucky is feeling. He didn’t see him at morning prayers or breakfast, but Bucky seems alert enough. His back is straight and his head held high and he’s so handsome it hurts. He’s wearing a blue tunic with gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs.

The king is also dressed in his most jewel-encrusted finery, crowned and shining. He takes Bucky’s hand and they kneel before the bishop. Steve clenches his teeth. There are vows, and long, Latin prayers, and the Sacrament. The bishop blesses them, and invites them to rise.

Through the ceremony, Bucky has kept his face as smooth and unreadable as stone. Steve sees him close his eyes when he is announced to the applause of the gathered crowd: His Royal Highness, Prince Consort, James Pierce.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epigraph is from a translation of _Sonnet XVII_ by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> If anyone's interested in boring worldbuilding commentary for this chapter, you can read it [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1EP1J65A_TxFabPEHULiO1uW0o5T6epoqTPpONey49OY/edit?usp=sharing) in this Google doc.
> 
> I don't post very often, but I'm on tumblr [here](http://imriebelow.tumblr.com).


	2. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's POV! The longest of the four parts. Pierce isn't terribly nice to Bucky in this chapter, and if you want more details before reading, head to the notes at the bottom of the page.

 

he celebration in the great hall is an assault on the senses. Bucky’s ears ring with the clamor of raucous laughter, snatches of song, and people shouting over each other to be heard. The air is rich with the smell of roast meat and fresh bread, hearty enough it almost makes him sorry his anxious stomach is refusing any food. It’s hot and smoky, fires roaring in the hearths. Beads of sweat tickle his neck and he wipes them away before bringing his cup to his mouth. The wine is strong and he’s drunk too much of it already.

Natasha hovers behind him, refilling his cup whenever it runs dry. Sometimes she brushes her arm against him, a quiet reassurance. She doesn’t show worry or disapproval, but Bucky feels it anyway, though it pales when compared to the weight of his new husband’s regard.

With three grown daughters and a scattering of grandchildren, Alexander’s no young man, but he carries himself with sureness and strength. He’s nearly Bucky’s height, his hair a fading red-gold crowned with an emerald circlet. His eyes are a clear, shrewd blue, and his jaw is strong; he must have been handsome in his youth.

When the king speaks, Bucky bows his head to listen; when the king touches him he submits to a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, his neck, his knee. He touches Bucky frequently, gazes at him over his goblet. It makes his skin prickle all over.

Alexander’s hand wanders a little farther up his leg. “Smile, darling,” he says into Bucky’s ear. “One might think you’re not happy to be here.”

Bucky smiles.

Steve is here, somewhere. He’s tried with all his might not to seek him in the crowd. It would hurt to see him. It’s going to be a quiet kind of torture - for God knows how many years - to look at him every day and never be able to touch.

He can’t think about that now, so he takes a long drink instead. The king motions for more wine. The servants step forward and tip their red amphorae, pouring the drink liberally into their cups.

Guests flock their table, looking to give their congratulations and have a moment of the king’s attention. Alexander’s daughters look at Bucky with suspicion and distaste, and steer their young children away from him. The king ruffles his oldest grandson’s hair. In the morning, Bucky thinks, they’ll disappear back to their own estates, taking away any unpleasant reminders that all the king owns will one day belong to them. It’s a blessing his heirs are so young, and his children all women; Bucky can't imagine this man would have tolerated the ambition of a son.

He’s grateful, too, that the king wanted him rather than his sisters. There won’t be any question of additional heirs or rights to the throne.

The number of well-wishers trickles off as the night goes on. The air is hot and thick, and the noise of the guests grows louder the more they drink. Bucky’s head throbs. He keeps a smile glued to his face, stiff and frozen.

“James,” the king says in his ear. “I think it’s time to retire, don’t you?”

He swallows and blandly agrees. As they get up from the table he looks at Natasha. Her mouth is tight.

The king rests his hand on the small of Bucky’s back, steering him away from the knowing looks and bawdy shouts that follow them out of the hall. The pounding in Bucky’s head eases a little in the quiet corridor, settling as a bright stab behind his eyes. A pair of guards trail them up a narrow staircase and take dutiful places outside the king’s quarters.

The room is overseen by a magnificent tapestry: gold-armored soldiers hunting a white hart. The stag watches Bucky and the king pass with pale, terrified eyes. A chipped Roman bust guards a corner, head turned away. This room had seemed less imposing when the king brought him here yesterday while touring the castle. Now the furniture casts wild shadows in the light of the crackling fire, and the dark walls feel like they’re closing in.

The hand on Bucky’s back guides him to sit on the bed. He’s breathing fast, and clenches his fists to hide their shaking.

Alexander takes a moment to dampen the fire. Bucky’s glad; the heat is stifling. Turning away from the hearth, the king stands in front of him, face in shadow, outlined with light.

“Did you sleep well last night?” he asks.

“Well enough,” Bucky says.

“It’s difficult, I know,” the king says. “Being in a new place. Lonely, with all these new people around.” He tilts Bucky’s chin up. “Were you lonely last night?”

He opens his mouth but no words come out. The king’s thumb strokes along Bucky’s jaw.

“You’re welcome to join me, if ever you want company, my dear. I do want our marriage to be genuine.” He leans down and kisses Bucky, unbothered by his stiffness and lack of response. When he pulls back, his eyes glitter in the dim light. “I know you aren’t happy with this arrangement,” he says. His fingers trace the outline of Bucky’s ear, stroke through his hair. His voice is gentle. “I could have asked for half your kingdom. I asked for you instead. Don’t make me regret it.” Again, the king kisses him, almost tenderly. Bucky can’t hide his shudder.

The king releases him to fetch a small package wrapped in green silk. “A gift for you,” he says. “I had it made as soon as I had your mother’s agreement.” The bed dips as he joins Bucky and places the gift in his hands.

Bucky unwraps it. It’s a pendant, a serpent with six twining heads. The craftsmanship is beautiful, the details small and fine. The interlacings echo the ones decorating his ring. He holds it up by its long, golden chain and the firelight catches in the gems set in the eyes.

“Shall I put it on you?” the king asks. Without waiting for an answer, his fingers move to the back of Bucky’s neck, unclasping the cross that’s already there. He tosses it on a table, and Bucky flinches as it slides off and hits the ground. His mother gave him that cross when he was a child.

Alexander takes the pendant and fastens it around Bucky’s neck. His hands linger on Bucky’s shoulders, and his lips press to a spot just under his ear. Bucky gasps.

“Beautiful,” the king murmurs. He runs a finger along the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “You must wear blue often, darling; it suits you.”

He shuts his eyes. “Whatever my lord wants,” he says. The king huffs a soft laugh and begins unlacing Bucky’ shirt-ties.

“Whatever I want,” he repeats in a low voice. He tugs Bucky close and kisses him again, deeply, biting at his bottom lip. “Look at me,” he commands.

Bucky forces himself to meet the king’s gaze.

“James,” Alexander says, fondly. “Jamie.” He brushes the corner of Bucky’s mouth with his thumb. His voice is almost kind. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” Bucky lies, and the king looks pleased, eyes crinkling.

“Of course not,” he says, amused. Alexander returns to the task of undressing him, stopping intermittently to kiss him, and whisper in his ear. As each layer disappears, the king’s eyes grow darker and Bucky’s mouth gets drier. His head throbs.

Alexander presses his lips to the emerald ring that Steve had so reverently slid onto Bucky’s finger. “Don’t be scared,” he says.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t get out of bed for breakfast or morning prayers. The king doesn’t seem to mind; he strokes Bucky’ hair and leaves him be.

It’s inching toward noon when Natasha’s soft tread finally induces him to stir. He sits up against the pillows, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. She perches on the edge of the bed, face carefully neutral.

He musters up half a smile. “I don’t suppose you brought something to eat?”

“I did, actually,” she says. “It’s in your room.” She’s also brought him a new set of clothes, and helps him dress in a businesslike manner that goes a long way toward calming his nerves.

Bucky’s chamber is a short walk away, and Natasha, head held high, takes his elbow and supports him past the guards. He doesn’t look at them, but feels their curious looks prickling on the back of his neck. When the door shuts behind them, he nearly collapses from relief.

As promised, there’s a tray of food waiting for him on the bed, and Natasha sits next to him while he pokes at it.

“I can poison him for you,” she says.

He huffs a laugh. “I appreciate the offer,” he says. “But I can’t see that ending well for anyone.”

Her thin, pale fingers twine with his. “I understand, “ she says. “But I still hate it.”

Bucky squeezes her hand. “I know. Thank you.” He leans back against the pillows. There wasn’t much chance of a restful sleep last night. The desire to bury himself under the covers is fierce. His head is buzzing too much to let him relax, and there’s no guarantee the king will ignore him for long.

Natasha picks up a needlework project she’d stowed away in Bucky’s trunk. For a few peaceful minutes he watches her nimble hands embroider protective symbols among flowers and leaves.

“James,” she says, tying off a thread. “The king’s wizard. He was at the feast, did you see him? The Saxon, Zola?”

Bucky had been busy staring at his plate to avoid his husband’s attention, but he does remember a small man with sparse hair and wide, frog-like eyes. He met the man’s gaze once, by accident, and Zola had smiled.

“I was exploring the castle last night. I found his workshop,” she says. “There’s a passage by the stables that leads underground.”

“Natasha,” Bucky says. He sits up and stares at her, alarmed. “Please be careful.”

“No one saw me,” she shrugs. “And he didn’t have any guard-spells that I could find. The servants are too frightened of being cursed to go near there anyway.”

“Please,” Bucky says. “If something happens to you-”

“I’ll be careful,” she says, but her expression is troubled. “He’s a black magician, I’m sure of it. There were _things_ in jars. And a book I’m certain was bound in human skin. It burned my hand when I touched it.” Her needle flashes up and down, picking out a thorny vine. A curl of hair escapes her veil and she tucks it back. “Whatever reason the king keeps him, it’s not good.”

Bucky bites a fingernail. “You don’t think he would do something to us?”

“No,” she concedes. “Not you, at least. I’m sure the king considers you too valuable. Let’s make a deal - I won’t prowl around Zola’s workroom any more, if you do what you can to stay away from him.”

“I can’t argue with that.” “Don’t take anything he gives you. Food, wine, gifts - anything.” She chews her bottom lip. This Saxon magician has badly unsettled her.

“I won’t,” Bucky says. “I promise.” With a start, he remembers the little glass bottle he’d asked her to destroy. His heart jumps. “Oh, God, Natasha - the potion.”

“Your friend got rid of it,” she assures him.

“Steve?” His eyes widen with horror. “Why would you tell him about that?!”

“I thought he’d get it done quickly, and there were too many eyes on us,” she says. “I didn’t want to risk holding on to it.”

He sinks back, hands over his face. Her reasoning makes sense, but he’s sick with shame that Steve knows how desperate he was, the dangerous magic to which he almost resorted.

“Besides,” she adds quietly. “You trust him. So I’m going to trust him, too.”

“Oh,” he says, touched. It means a lot that she’s willing to put so much faith in his judgement, here in this unfamiliar place.

“Just take care, both of you,” she says. “Don’t let your feelings make you careless.” 

 

* * *

 

It’s well into the afternoon before Alexander comes to see him. He’s cheerful, and tugs Bucky out of bed.

“You’ve shut yourself away like the princess in the tower long enough,” he says.

They head to Tintagel’s extensive stables. The king is known to be a skilled equestrian, and passionate about the horses he keeps. He ushers Bucky through, grooms scattering around them. As he introduces Bucky to his favorites, he glows with pride.

“This is my Centurion,” he says, running his hands over a big bay charger who snorts and noses at him. “He’s not as young as he used to be, but still has a nasty bite.” The king procures a handful of wild strawberries and feeds them to the horse one at a time. He looks at Bucky sidelong, corners of his mouth turned up. “But he knows better than to try that with me.”

They move on to an elegant palfrey that tosses its head as they approach. “Here’s a special one,” Alexander says. “I hope you like her, my dear. She’s yours.” The horse nudges him, looking for treats. He gives her a berry. “Her name is Midwinter. Three years old. Very good breeding; I rode her grandmother as a boy.”

She’s a shining dark chestnut with a black mane and white blaze. When Bucky offers his hand she pricks her ears up, sniffing at him. “She’s beautiful,” he says, and she rubs against him, lets him stroke her long neck.

“She’s a spirited little thing; I aided in breaking her.” Alexander says. “Sweet, but needs a firm hand.” His voice lowers. “I thought she would suit you.”

Bucky’s fingers still in the soft brown mane. The king holds a strawberry out to his lips.

“Would you like one?” he asks. Bucky flinches.

“No, thank you,” he says stiffly. The king laughs and eats it himself.

“Perhaps later,” he says, touching Bucky’s chin, and then the pendant in the hollow of his throat. “Shall we go for a ride?”

The grooms appear again in a whirl of saddles and tack, readying Midwinter and the king’s black palfrey, Caesar. Bucky hoists himself onto the horse, pretending he doesn’t see the hand Alexander offers to help him mount. Followed discreetly by the king’s guards, they exit the castle grounds, riding out onto a cliffside trail overlooking the sea. It’s a warm summer day and the air smells like salt and earth. Midwinter is lively, prancing a little and trying to pull ahead of the others. Bucky lets her. Breezes catch at his hair and he breathes them in deeply. He keeps his eyes on the trail, trying to ignore his company, though he can feel the king’s gaze like a hot brand. After a few moments, Alexander urges his horse up and grabs Midwinter’s reins, leaning in. “How do you like her?” he asks.

“She’s wonderful,” Bucky says.

“Good,” the king says. He digs his heels in and Caesar surges ahead, Midwinter racing to catch up. Bucky tries to rein her in, but she pays no attention, excited to run. They kick up dust and clouds of insects and a few startled birds, leaving the guards behind. A flock of sheep scatter around them, the shepherd bowing low as they pass.

“See what I mean about her?” the king calls as Bucky’s horse overtakes his. “You’re too soft,” he chides. “You need to let her know you’re in charge.” Again, he rides up close and takes Midwinter’s reins from Bucky’s hands. She matches her pace to Caesar’s, docile. “See?” Alexander says indulgently. “She knows to listen to me.”

They slow the horses to a walk, cooling them down. The king cards his fingers through Caesar’s dark mane.

“It’s a fine day for a ride,” he says. Bucky agrees. Despite his company, it’s nice to be out. The air is warm and the sky half-filled with puffy grey and white clouds. Trefoil and yellow gorse bloom along the road.

The king shades his eyes against the sun, peering out over the moorland. “How do you like my kingdom so far?” he asks. “Does it please you?”

“It’s lovely,” Bucky says with some hesitancy. Cornwall is a beautiful place, from what he’s seen so far. It’s not the green hills he’s used to, but the golden, windswept moors and rocky beaches have a strange, lonely charm. It’s not the landscape here he objects to.

“Had you ever traveled outside of Ireland before?”

“No,” Bucky says.

“You never fought on these shores? Gone trading in the Welsh kingdoms?”

He shakes his head.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have,” the king says. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to be so far away.” He reaches and tilts Bucky’s face toward him. “She considered you precious.”

Bucky swallows and holds himself still. Midwinter reacts to his distress, tossing her head. The king lets go of Bucky’s face and pats her neck.

He’s not surprised that Alexander is needling him about this. It’s been a source of guilt for years that Bucky never led his mother’s soldiers in the war against Cornwall, as a prince of his station should. He was trained to fight, talented with a sword, and was not in line for the throne. There would be no quarrel about succession should he have been killed. It wasn’t his mother’s fear that kept him off the battlefield; it was his own. He couldn’t face the thought he might find Steve on the other end of his sword.

“My own mother took a pilgrimage when she was young,” the king says. “She saw the Holy Land, Jerusalem, Rome. I loved her stories about Rome. A shame,” he says, looking pensive. “That we returned to the chaos and barbarity we lived in before the Empire. Our land could use order.”

Alexander’s fascination with the old empire is well known. His castle is built on the site of an old Roman settlement, and farmers often find coins and artifacts when tilling the fields. The king has an extravagant collection of Roman jewels and gold and glass. Among the many rings on his right hand is a carnelian intaglio, engraved with the stern face of Jupiter.

The king lapses into a thoughtful silence, swaying a little with the motion of his horse. “When I was a young man, about your age, I fought a skirmish against Saxon raiders. We killed all but one, a wise man, a sorcerer. My men thought me mad for sparing him, but I felt he would serve us better alive. That night he scryed my future in a bowl of water. He told me I would one day be King over all Britons.”

Bucky shifts uneasily. He’s sure the king is speaking about Zola, and while he knew Alexander was ambitious about expanding his kingdom, he hadn’t realized how much.

“We had taken half of Wessex, were gaining in Mercia, but then your damned mother and her war-” His face is cold. He grabs Bucky’s wrist, fingers pressing down to bone. Unbalanced, Bucky tries to pull his arm away, squeezing Midwinter to make her stop. She prances nervously, whickering. The king again takes him by the chin, inspecting his face. His nails dig in.

Then he hits him.

Shocked, Bucky snatches at the reins to keeps from toppling off his horse. Tears prick at his eyes and he rubs them away, telling himself they’re just from the suddenness of the blow.

“But never mind all that,” Alexander says, voice calm as though nothing had happened. “That upstart in Camelot calling himself High King has done my work for me. And my army is no longer otherwise occupied, so we can turn ourselves to more important things. Can’t we, my dear?”

Bucky keeps his mouth shut, hand pressed to his face. He doesn’t know if the king really wants him to answer, and doesn’t want to provoke him. Especially here out on the moor, with even the guards too far away to witness what the king might do.

Alexander peels Bucky’s hand away. He kisses the mark left there, then Bucky’s lips. Their horses’ flanks bump together. “I intend to unite Britain under my banner,” he says. “You should know that, now that you are my husband. It’s not what you expected when you agreed to marry me, I’m sure, but I should think you’ll come to enjoy it.” He tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “I think it’s time to head back,” he says. “Or we’ll miss supper.” He turns Caesar back toward Tintagel and Midwinter follows a step behind.

There’s no way to hide the red mark on his face from Natasha, but he’d hoped to keep Steve from seeing it until it faded. When they return to the castle, though, Steve is in the courtyard training with other knights. He snaps to attention when he sees them. Bucky give him a wan smile and turns his head away, too late.

Steve drops his sword and is at his side in an instant, eyes stormy. He tries to help Bucky dismount, but Bucky avoids his hands and slips down Midwinter’s side without him.

“Your Majesty,” Steve greets the king, voice tight. “Your Highness. Is everything alright?”

“Quite so, Steven,” the king says, handing the horses off to the grooms.

“I fell,” Bucky says in a low voice. “Just a little spill, nothing serious.” He stares at Steve, trying to will him to understand: not now, not here, not in front of him.

Steve sets his jaw, but nods. He goes back to the knights, picking up his sword and swinging it with twice as much ferocity as before. His anger warms Bucky’s heart as much as it terrifies him. Steve’s always been his most reckless when he’s in moods like this.

In the castle, Natasha is quietly incensed that the king hit him. She dabs a potion on his face that eases the sting and the redness and kindly pretends not to notice when he can’t hold in his angry tears.

 

* * *

 

Bucky goes to bed in his own room that night. He’s just settling in when Steve knocks on his door. A small, exhausted part of Bucky is tempted to tell Natasha to send him away, but the bigger part is relieved to fall into his embrace as soon as they’re alone.

Steve grips him firmly, burying his face against his neck. When he pulls back he holds Bucky at arm’s length, examining him. “He hit you,” Steve says.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Steve’s grip tightens. “Don’t say that.”

“He’s my husband,” Bucky reminds him. “And my king. He can do whatever he likes with me.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “I’ll speak to him,” he says. “Make him see reason.”

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky says.

“I promised your mother you’d be safe here,” Steve says. Then, more quietly: “I promised you.”

He’s quivering with righteous anger. Bucky can’t look at him.

“I don’t care what debt I owe him.” Steve’s voice is rough. “I won’t stand aside and see you treated - ”

“Steve,” Bucky says bleakly. “I thought you’d learned not to pick fights you can’t win.”

Frustrated, Steve runs his hands through his hair and leans against the wall. “I didn’t think he would really hurt you,” he admits. “I hoped he could put aside his bitterness toward your family.”

“It’s only been a few days,” Bucky says. “Give it time. Perhaps it was just a moment of weakness.” He tries to look like he believes what he’s saying. Steve isn’t pacified.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he says. “Especially by one who’s supposed to love you.”

“You always demand the best of everyone,” Bucky says. It’s something he’s always both hated and loved about Steve.

In the corner of the room, Natasha clears her throat. She’s spent the last few minutes bent over her embroidery pretending she’s not listening to their conversation. “James,” she says. “It’s late.”

“She’s right,” Bucky says. “You should go.”

“Buck - ”

“If you’re here too long, people will gossip. That won’t make things easier for me. For either of us.”

Steve’s brow creases, but he doesn’t offer any more protest. Before he leaves, he sweeps Bucky up in another hug. Bucky closes his eyes, relishing his smell, his strong arms, the rasp of blond beard against his cheek.

“We could run away,” Steve says very quietly in his ear.

Bucky’s heart thuds and he pushes him away. “Don’t say things like that,” he says, too harshly. Steve looks pale but resolute.

“I won’t,” he says. “But, Bucky - ”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I know.” He allows himself to press the smallest of kisses to the corner of his mouth, and whispers: “I love you, too.”

Steve exits and Natasha goes to the door, watching him as he disappears down the hall. She shuts it and Bucky drops into bed, exhausted.

“I’m glad you have him,” Natasha says. “He seems like a good man. But remember what I said about being careful.”

“He’s the one you should be saying that to,” Bucky protests. He throws the covers over his head and feels the bed dip a little as Natasha sits on the edge. Her hand finds Bucky’s leg and pats it.

She gets up and puts out the candles and dampens the fire. Bucky blinks until his eyes get used to the darkness. He touches his throat where his mother’s cross used to hang, and prays.

 

* * *

 

For the next few weeks, the king largely leaves Bucky to his own devices. He’s not totally ignored, spending some nights in his husband’s bed and always sitting beside him at meals. Alexander has given him more gifts: fine clothes, a pearl-handled knife, a Byzantine garnet ring. The king has been genial; he hasn’t laid a hand on Bucky or shown anything of the sudden anger that had overtaken him on the moor. Things have settled into a wary peace.

Without the king’s attention, Bucky struggles to find tasks to occupy himself with. As much as he wants to, he doesn’t dare spend too much time with Steve, and he and Natasha tend to snipe at each other when holed up in his room for too long.

He takes Midwinter out riding whenever he can, always followed at an unobtrusive distance by a guard. Despite the unwanted chaperone he enjoys guiding his horse along the cliffside trails, nodding to the occasional traveler and watching the fishing boats bobbing in the waves. Sometimes he walks Midwinter down to the shoreline, letting her nibble at beach grasses while he collects dogwhelks and scallops from the water’s edge. It’s nice to be out in the sun and the salt air, away from the curious and sometimes hostile stares of the court. It’s lonely, too; he misses his sisters and his mother and the familiar faces of home.

When the solitude gets overwhelming he gives into the temptation to see Steve. A few mornings Bucky spends loitering around the training yard, watching him spar with the other knights and the squires. One day he even takes up a sword himself, trading playful blows with Steve. He’s out of practice, but it’s a thrill to test Steve’s strength, to see the skills he’s honed in the years they were apart. It’s the most he’s enjoyed himself in weeks. By the end, he and Steve are grinning and out of breath, and Bucky’s heart skips at how beautiful he is, red-cheeked and glowing with energy. After a moment, though, he becomes aware of a shape at the edge of his vision: the king is watching them, mouth turned down in disapproval.

“James,” he calls, and Bucky drops the sword and hastens over. He flicks his eyes at Steve, who looks as nervous as he feels. The king frowns deeper at Bucky’s dusty clothes, brushing at some of the dirt. He doesn’t say anything about Steve, but instead chastises Bucky for his disheveled appearance.

Bucky suspects that the king’s real concern is that he was armed. Alexander prefers him to be more decorative than functional.

That evening he spends in the king’s chambers, sitting in a chair by the fire, thumbing through a copy of _The Life of Saint Cuthbert_. Alexander is bent over a parchment, quill scratching out careful letters. Bucky runs a finger over a gilded page, looking at the words without really seeing them. His thoughts keep turning to Steve. He wonders what Steve is doing: if he’s tending his horse, or in his own rooms resting, or drinking with the other knights. He wonders if Steve is thinking about him. Bucky stares into the flames until spots dance in front of his eyes. His husband rustles paper, murmuring to himself. Bucky’s throat constricts and a thread of shame worms its way into his head. What good does it do to waste away longing to be with Steve? He’s not the first to be wed to someone he doesn’t love and it’s foolish to pine after something he can’t have.

Closing the book and putting it away, he slips into bed. He watches the king at his writing desk, blotting ink. Bucky doesn’t like him any more than he did the first day, but he’s much less afraid of him now. It’s time, he decides, to resolve himself to this life and put away his desires. To remove himself from these sins he doesn’t dare confess to any ear but God’s. He’ll be civil to his husband and brotherly to Steve. It’s enough, he tells himself, that Steve is here at all.

After some time the king puts away his writing and joins him. Bucky determinedly does not stiffen when a possessive arm snakes around his waist. It’s a long time before he closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Bucky is surprised, a few day later, when Steve joins him for a ride. They’re alone, the king satisfied with Steve as chaperone. It’s a blessing to be able to relax around one another, but a test of Bucky’s resolve. He tries to keep their talk light and inconsequential, but he keeps noticing the golden color of Steve’s hair, the gentleness of his hands on the reins. He cuts a dashing figure on his white horse, Aquila, and Bucky can’t help but drink him in.

Steve seems distracted, losing the thread of conversation and worrying at his bottom lip. He turns Aquila off the path, dismounts, and settles in the grass, leaning back on his hands and staring at the sky. With some hesitation, Bucky joins him.

“Buck,” Steve says eventually. “There are raiders at the border with Wessex. The king is sending me to fight.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “I’ll hurry back,” Steve assures him. “Well. As much as I can. I don’t know how long this will take.”

Bucky frowns at him. “Take as long as you need. I’ll still be here when you come back. I don’t want you being careless and getting killed because of me. ”

Steve gives him a small, crooked smile and ducks his head. “I don’t want to be apart from you even for a second,” he admits. An answering smile tugs at Bucky’s lips even as the confession twists his heart.

“I don’t like leaving you alone,” Steve says. “I won’t be alone,” Bucky says. “I have Natasha. And it will probably do me good to - to spend time with my husband.” He tears off stalks of sedge grass and worries between his fingers.

“Yes,” Steve says, reluctantly. “I suppose it would.” He hunches his shoulders and heaves a sigh.

They’re dangerously close. Bucky only needs reach out a few inches to put his hand on Steve’s arm and comfort him, assure him he’ll always be first in Bucky’s heart. It’s heady, being alone like this, and his hand moves of its own accord, resting on Steve’s.

“Bucky,” Steve says and leans in, just a little.

He wants Steve to kiss him again, wants it more than anything in the world, but he turns his head, breaks the moment between them. They can’t. They’ve been doing so well. Steve’s fingers tangle with his and squeeze. When Bucky can bear to look back he sees on Steve’s face understanding and regret.

“We shouldn’t stay out long,” Bucky whispers. “He’ll be wondering where I am.” They’re both quiet on the ride back to the castle. Steve keeps his eyes on the path and Bucky keeps his eyes on him. He might as well look his fill. It’s best for Steve to go. A separation will be good for them. It’s better for Steve to go back to the life he was living before Bucky came here, for both of them to settle into the roles they’ve been given and stop yearning for more.

After returning their mounts to the stables, before going their separate ways, Bucky seizes Steve’s elbow and says into his ear: “Be careful, please. I mean it. I couldn’t bear to lose you now.”

“I will,” Steve says. “Nothing could stop me from coming back to you, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Steve departs with a company of knights. At morning prayers, Bucky bows his head in the chapel and prays for Steve’s safety and for his own ability to endure their time apart. He avoids Natasha, who will doubtless have sharp words to say about _pining_.

As the evening meal draws to a close, the king winds a casual arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Drowsy with wine and the hum of overlapping chatter, Bucky accepts it. He finds it strangely relieving to not feel Steve’s jealous eyes at Alexander’s touch. It’s a guilty thought, but, he tells himself, a necessary one.

Without the distraction of Steve, Bucky sets himself to getting involved in his husband’s affairs. The king meets daily with his councillors and knights, and Bucky sits at his side, observing. He’s tolerated at the councils, but mostly disregarded. It’s not something he minds, and when he has an opinion on the talks, he’s happy to keep it to himself.

As he’d said to Bucky weeks before, Alexander is eager to expand his borders, now that his army isn’t preoccupied with Ireland. Before the war, he’d been steadily pushing into Wessex and encroaching on Mercia. The king, Bucky learns, aspires to drive the Saxons back and reclaim Britannia for the Britons, uniting them under his own banner as High King.

Bucky twists his ring around his finger, watching them pore over a map. A debate breaks out on the benefits of attacking by sea. Across the room, Zola peers at him with protruding eyes, and smirks.

Not all of Alexander’s meetings are concerned with war; many are mundane discussions of economy and law, and endless lines of peasants bringing their suits before the king. Bucky has spent enough long days in his mother’s court to be familiar with it. It’s repetitive enough that even his interest is sparked when a lord arrives at court to tell the king that a white stag has been spotted on Fowey Moor. It causes a stir of excitement among the court, and Zola proclaims it a sure sign of good fortune. Wild rumors fly that the beast is magical, that it’s a sign from God, and even that it grants wishes to anyone who catches it. The king calls for a hunt.

Soon after, the hunting party gathers in the courtyard, horses snorting and stamping in the cool morning mist. Bucky has his hands full with Midwinter, who shifts restlessly and whickers at the hounds slinking around her feet. Around him, Alexander and his knights ready bows and spears. Bucky, as he expected, is not offered one. A few of the men have hawks, hooded and belled, perched on their arms.

They ride out in a clamor of hooves and horns. The day grows warm; they’re well into summer and tall golden grasses ripple in the wind. The company passes flocks of sheep and scattered villages and ancient rings of stone. As the sun climbs in the sky, they reach Fowey and rest in the shade of a granite tor. A few squires keep riding ahead, hoping to flush out the game. Food is procured, and wineskins. Bucky loiters by the horses, combing his fingers through Midwinter’s mane. She noses at him, looking for treats, then pricks her ears up at the king’s approach.

Alexander slides his arm around Bucky’s waist. “Good day for a hunt,” he comments. “I prefer boar, but a stag will put up a fight too. Our quarry has twelve points, from what I’ve heard. It’ll be quite the trophy.” He guides Bucky away from the horses to sit beside him on a boulder. “You’ve been spending a lot of time at my council meetings. Finally taking an interest in your new home?”

A buzzard wheels overhead. “I thought it would please you,” Bucky says cautiously, and the king laughs.

“It does,” he says. “What do you think of approaching Wessex by sea? Borrowing their own tactics. I must say I’m quite taken with the idea.” He rubs his chin, staring out over the heath. “Your mother has quite a few ships at her disposal. Perhaps you could write to her and request their loan.”

“I don’t know if she would-”

“I don’t think she’s in much position to argue,” the king says, squeezing his wrist. “Nor are you.” He digs in a pouch on his belt and pulls out a square of embroidered linen.

Bucky’s heart stutters - it’s one of Natasha’s, with runes and spells stitched into the design.

“This was found in your rooms,” Alexander says. “I was told you had brought along a maidservant, not a witch. One might consider it a threat, sneaking a sorceress into the king’s house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says.

The king’s grip tightens, his eyes glinting. “A witch can be accused of many things: sabotage, poisoning, spying. One might even call it a breaking of the treaty between us, and grounds for war.”

Bucky swallows hard.

“Or perhaps I’m mistaken,” the king says, tucking the linen in Bucky’s hand. “This is a terrible misunderstanding, and there’s no witch at all.”

“I’ll write the letter,” Bucky snaps. The fabric crumples in his fist. “Whatever you need.”

The king touches his lips, kisses him. “Of course you will, my dear. I expect nothing less from my beloved.” He sweeps away.

Before long, the squires come thundering back, crying that they’ve sighted the hart. The hunting party saddles up and follows them.

“It’s a good thing Rogers isn’t here,” a knight comments. “The rest of us will finally have a chance at the kill.”

Bucky stares dully ahead. He wishes more than anything that Steve was here.

The hounds catch the scent and chase the deer down. They surround it, baying. The stag is tall as a warhorse, with a dozen points and a ghostly white coat. It lowers its velvety antlers, looking like it might rush at the dogs.

The knights circle it, arguing cheerfully over who should have the kill. Eventually it’s settled that the privilege will go to the king. Alexander accepts an offered spear, then glances sidelong at Bucky. He holds the weapon out. “Would you like the honor?”

Bucky reaches out, curls his fingers around the polished shaft. He hunted often at his mother’s court, and it would be nice to be appreciated for his skill. The dogs bite at the stag’s ankles and it bellows. He stares at it, reminded sickly of the white hart in the tapestry in the king’s rooms. He won’t be able to meet its accusing eyes tonight. He lets go.

“No, thank you.”

The king shrugs, hefting the spear. He lines up his shot, aiming for a quick kill that won’t damage the hide.

Bucky turns Midwinter away and tries to block out the sound of the animal’s dying scream.

The men set to skinning it, wrapping the meat and throwing portions to the dogs. The rack is carefully removed to be mounted in the great hall.

The knights ride down several more deer before the day is over, though none are as impressive as the king’s kill. It’s night before the party turns for home. Bucky lags behind, at the edge of the torchlight, but the king motions for Bucky to ride next to him.

“A place of honor,” he says. “For my good luck charm.”

 

* * *

 

Noon prayers are interrupted by a horns blowing in the courtyard. Steve’s knights have returned from the border. The king goes out to greet them, and Bucky follows at his heels. He stops in the doorway with a sinking feeling. He counts: the knights are fewer in number than when they left.

The men dismount and hand off their horses, beginning the process of removing their heavy mail.

“Returning victorious, it seems,” Alexander calls. “How went the fight?”

“A pleasant skirmish,” says a dark-haired knight with a wolf’s head shield. Bucky thinks his name is Rumlow. The man grins, teeth bloody.

There’s no white horse or blond head in the crowd.

Bucky pushes forward, dizzy. He hovers at the king’s elbow, still scanning the faces over and over. Steve is not among them.

“How many lost?” The king asks.

“Three,” Rumlow says. “And one badly wounded.”

Alexander nods, these numbers acceptable to him.

Bucky’s hands are shaking. _What about Steve?_ he wants to shout. _Where is he?_ His mouth doesn’t remember how to form words. His feet move without conscious thought, taking him back into the castle, fleeing into the privacy of his rooms. Natasha startles when he slams the door behind him.

“What’s happened?” She asks.

“Leave me alone,” he says, sinking to the floor.

She doesn’t, crouching beside him.

He buries his face in his hands. “Steve didn’t come back,” he says. His eyes are dry, but his throat feels thick and his stomach queasy.

She grips his shoulders, tight. “James,” she says, roughly.

“Don’t,” he says. “Just leave, please.”

“Never,” Natasha says, and pulls him close, tucking his chin under her neck.

The shadows are growing long by the time Bucky has gathered himself enough to move. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at his ring - Alexander’s ring, that Steve had put on him.

He hears a horn in the courtyard.

“James,” Natasha says. She peers through the arrow-slit in the wall. “ _James_.”

Bucky gets up and looks. There’s a white horse, its golden-haired rider helping down a second, bleeding, passenger.

“I’m going to kill him,” Bucky says, all the tears he couldn’t shed earlier now stinging his eyes.

He storms down to the stables, where Steve is handing his helmet and shield to a squire. After a moment, Steve notices him and smiles. Sick with relief and fury, Bucky grabs him by the arm and yanks him into an empty stall.

“What - Bucky!” Steve protests.

“Shut up,” he says, still fighting back the urge to cry. Bucky looks around; there’s a groom at the far end of the stables, but all the squires have left. They’re alone. He shoves Steve hard against the wall, grabs his face and kisses him.

Steve makes a muffled noise, but his hands come up to rest on Bucky’s side. “What,” he says, dazed, when they break apart.

“You didn’t come back with the others,” Bucky says, fisting his hands in Steve’s shirt.

“Bucky, I don’t -”

“ _You didn’t come back with the others_ ,” he repeats, and understanding flickers across Steve’s face.

“Buck, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Meyrick lost his horse and took a bad blow to the head. I was riding slowly so I wouldn’t jostle him. I didn’t think-”

“I can’t do this without you,” Bucky says desperately. “I need you.”

“I promised you I’d come back,” Steve says. “I’ll always come back, Bucky, I swear.”

Bucky presses his face into Steve’s neck. Steve smells like leather and metal, sweat and blood. “You ass,” he says. “Don’t do that to me again.”

Steve cups the back of Bucky’s head, tilting it up to kiss him again, but a crash startles them apart. The groom curses loudly as he picks up whatever he’s knocked over.

Taking a few steps back, Bucky prickles with awareness of how foolish it was to do this here. “We should go inside,” he says. “I’m sure there’ll be a feast tonight, and we’ll be expected to be there.”

“And I should clean up,” Steve says, but he doesn’t move, eyes fixed on Bucky’s mouth.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and he looks up guiltily.

“You’re right,” Steve says, shaking himself out of it. “Besides, I think there’s a rat in here.”

He lets Steve go first so they won’t be seen leaving together. Bucky goes back to his rooms, feeling both light and wrung out.

“Well?” Natasha asks. “Did you kill him?”

 _No_ , Bucky thinks, giddy. _I kissed him._  

 

* * *

 

As Bucky predicted, Alexander has ordered the kitchens to prepare a feast. The knights are welcomed back with music and dancing and an excessive amount of wine. The celebrations last well into the night.

Part of Bucky is drained from the range of emotions he’s gone through, but the rest is warm and filled with sparks of joy every time he looks at Steve - and he looks at Steve a lot. Feeling Bucky’s regard, Steve keeps glancing back and smiling.

When the revelers finally start trickling out of the hall, Bucky wanders tipsily back to his rooms. Fingers trailing on the wall, he’s surprised to notice that there are no guards in the corridors. He’s about to open his door, but pauses, thinking. The guards have abandoned their posts to join in the festivity. Most of the castle’s residents have been drinking heavily, and the king has already retired to bed. No one is in any state to notice where Bucky sleeps tonight. He must be more drunk than he realized, because it suddenly seems like a wonderful idea to slip away to Steve’s room.

He leans against what he thinks is the right door and knocks. It’s yanked open and Bucky tumbles into - thankfully - the arms he expected.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, setting him upright. His eyes are wide with alarm, but he, too, looks a little flushed with drink.

Bucky shuts the door firmly. “We didn’t finish talking, before,” he says, stepping into Steve’s space.

“Um,” Steve says, holding still as arms wind around his neck. “Are you drunk?”

“A little,” Bucky admits.

“Are -” He gulps when Bucky’s mouth finds the corner of his jaw. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“You didn’t seem to mind earlier,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve swallows again. “I didn’t,” he says roughly. “I don’t. But, Bucky, we can’t do this.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky says. “I don’t care anymore. I thought I’d lost you and I wanted to die. I need you.”

Steve’s hand trembles as it touches Bucky’s cheek. “I need you, too,” he says. “But I can’t have you.”

Bucky takes a shaky breath. “You already have me,” he says. “I’m yours.”

Steve can’t hold his resolve any longer, and he ducks his head, mouth finding Bucky’s. They stumble to the bed, where Bucky pulls Steve down on top of him.

“Tell me you want me,” Bucky says, and Steve smiles against his neck.

“I want you,” he confesses.

Bucky says: “Tell me you love me.”

Steve gets up on his elbows to look him in the eye. “I love you,” he says. “I love you.” He kisses Bucky, softly, then desperately, rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and breathes: “God, Bucky, I love you.”

Eyes fluttering closed Bucky gasps like he’s drowning, feeling the Steve’s warm weight holding him in place. He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair then slides his hands down his back. “Steve,” he says. “Steve, please - ”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Yes. Anything.” His mouth finds the curve of Bucky’s ear and his fingers tug the laces of his shirt.

It’s different, with Steve: infinitely more gentle and adoring. Bucky is Steve’s, and Steve is his: finally, gloriously, as they were meant to be.

They curl together, after, for a few quiet hours, hands gently exploring each other’s bodies. As the cool grey light of dawn turns to gold, Bucky dresses himself, and, with one last lingering kiss, slips into the corridor. He startles a rat, sending it scurrying into a corner, but otherwise makes his way back without being seen. When he creaks open his door, Natasha is sitting in a chair, needle flashing in and out of another project. Her face is pale and her eyes shadowed; it looks like she hasn’t slept.

She snaps a thread with her teeth. “James,” she says. “Where have you been?”

 

* * *

 

Natasha is furious with him, but Bucky is too buoyant, too intoxicated with Steve to care. Now that he’s had a taste, he can’t get enough. At Mass they dare to kneel next to one another, arms brushing. When Bucky goes out riding, Steve very innocently offers to chaperone him. They steal away whenever possible. Bucky finds himself sneaking into Steve’s rooms again and again. It’s nothing like the life he really wants with Steve, but it’s more than he thought he could ever have.

The danger, the forbidden nature of it thrums in his veins in a way that’s both sickening and exhilarating. Days pass, then weeks, and he finds himself growing reckless.

When the knights throw an informal sword competition, Bucky catches Steve in a dark doorway before he can go out to the training yard.

“Buck,” Steve squawks. “What are you doing?” He inches them a little further back into the shadows.

“I wanted to give you something.” Bucky says. “For luck.”

“Oh?” He smiles.

“A favor. I know I can’t give you anything someone might see, but-” Bucky sidles close, looks up through his eyelashes. “I thought this might do.” He pulls Steve down for a long kiss. Steve’s hands cup his face and when they pull apart he rests his forehead on Bucky’s, breathing his name. “I love you,” Bucky says, helplessly, and lets go.

He watches the knights from a window high up in the castle, grinning to himself as Steve works his way through his opponents.

He doesn’t allow himself to think about how it can’t last.

 

* * *

 

On a warm morning as summer draws to a close, Bucky kneels in the chapel, waiting for the bishop to take his confession. Though it sends guilt trickling down his spine, he has said nothing to the priest about Steve, instead asking God silently for forgiveness.

Slow footsteps catch his attention and Bucky looks up, a greeting dying on his lips. It’s not the priest - it’s the king, who’s looking down at him with a cold, remote gaze.

Unease churns in his stomach. Bucky shifts to get up, but the king raises a hand to stop him.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” Alexander says, too pleasantly.

Uncertain, Bucky settles back down. The king’s boots click on the floor as he moves to stand facing him.

“You’re not wearing the necklace I gave you,” he comments.

Bucky touches his throat. The hydra pendant isn’t there. He hadn’t even noticed its weight missing. “I must have forgotten it,” he says.

“Yes,” the king says, hands clasped thoughtfully behind him. “Or perhaps you lost it somewhere without realizing.”

Bucky tries to read his expression. Alexander’s tone is light, but his eyes are hard.

The king sees his confusion and his mouth twists. “In fact, I’m quite sure you lost it,” he says, holding out a hand. The pendant dangles from his fingers. When Bucky reaches for it, he snatches it back. “Don’t you want to know where it was found?”

Bucky freezes, hair raising.

“I wonder,” the king says. “How it came to be under Sir Rogers’ bed.”

Dizzy, Bucky pushes himself to his feet. “I don’t know,” he says faintly.

Alexander smiles cruelly and lets the necklace clatter to the floor. “I think you do.” He advances and Bucky can’t stumble away fast enough. Alexander hits him, rights him, and hits him again. Bucky tastes blood.

“You little whore,” the king says, terribly calm. He tilts Bucky’s chin up, runs his thumb along the split lip.

Motionless, Bucky tries to control his breathing. “Sir,” he says. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done-”

“Shut up,” Alexander’s fingers dig into his chin. “You were seen.”

The world drops out from under him. Bucky closes his eyes and clenches unsteady hands. “By who?”

“Zola,” the king says, and Bucky stares at him, baffled. When could Zola have seen him with Steve?

“Oh, my dear,” Alexander says. “You didn’t know? My good friend Arnim Zola is a powerful wizard with a particular talent for transformation.”

Claws skitter across the stones. A rat with pale, bulging eyes detaches itself from the shadows, twisting and shifting until Zola is standing in front of them. His mouth is stretched in a wide, self-satisfied smirk.

“Didn’t I warn you, Your Majesty?” he says. “Didn’t I say he would bring a curse on your house if you married him?”

Alexander ignores him, striding to the doorway and shouting for someone to bring him Rogers.

“Please,” Bucky breathes. “ _Please_. I made him. I seduced him. He didn’t want to -”

The king doesn’t look at him. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” He paces the room while Bucky stands, fixed, staring at the altar.

 _Lord, please,_ he begs. _Don’t let him kill Steve_.

Several tense, silent minutes pass until Sir Rumlow shoves a puzzled Steve into the chapel.

“Your Majesty,” Steve says, his eyes immediately snapping to the blood on Bucky’s face. “B- Your Highness.”

“Steven,” the king says. “My dear boy.”

“Sir?”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“What?” Steve says, going pale.

“Did you,” the king repeats. “Sleep with him?”

Steve goes wide-eyed. He stumbles over his words. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He’s a terrible liar, Bucky thinks deliriously. It’s a miracle he hasn’t given them away before now.

Rumlow is leaning against a wall, watching things unfold with interest.

“So you’ve decided that my kindness to you over the years means nothing,” Alexander says, face like stone.“James’ behavior doesn’t shock me, but you - I never expected this from you.”

“Sir,” Steve tries. “This is a misunderstanding, we would never-”

The king talks over him. “I should have you killed,” he says. “But for the sake of your father, I’ll spare your life. Rumlow, take him away. See that he’s out of my kingdom before dawn.”

Bucky sags with relief, but Steve looks wan and horrified.

“If I hear even a whisper that you’ve set foot on my lands again,” the king says. “You will be executed. And James, too.” He lays a proprietary hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, staring at Steve. “Do you understand?”

Fists clenched, Steve gives Bucky one last wild, despairing look. Bucky shakes his head, pleading to all the saints and angels to keep Steve from doing something stupid.

“I said,” the king snaps. “Do you understand?”

Steve nods mutely.

“Take him away.”

Rumlow grabs Steve’s shoulder, and Steve jerks out of his hold. Rumlow punches him in the stomach. Bucky jolts, but the king holds him in place. Doubled over in pain, Steve is much easier for the other knight to manhandle out of the chapel.

“Zola,” Alexander says, and the wizard bows and scuttles after them.

Bucky is alone with the king again. “I hate you,” he says, because it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Oh, I know,” Alexander says with an ugly smile. “Regardless, I am your husband and you belong to me.” He kisses Bucky’s bloody mouth, and laughs when Bucky shoves him away.

Zola reenters with a stoppered bottle in his hands. He gives it to the king, leering at Bucky.

“Thank you,” Alexander murmurs, popping out the cork. “Zola, you’ve outdone yourself.” He swirls the bottle like a fine wine. “James,” he says. “My Jamie. I’m willing to overlook your indiscretions-”

Bucky snorts, disbelieving.

“Really, my dear,” the king says. “I’m a forgiving man. All you have to do is drink this.” He presses the bottle into Bucky’s hand. “And we can start over.”

Tempted to dash it to the floor, Bucky wraps his fingers around it. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern.”

Is it poison? The liquid inside looks innocent enough, clear and sparkling like spring water. Still, anything that comes from Zola can only be foul. “I won’t,” Bucky says.

The king quirks his mouth and tilts his head.“Then I’ll have your pretty redheaded witch friend hanged in the courtyard.”

For a long moment Bucky stares at him, trying to think of something, anything he can say or do to save himself from whatever’s in Zola’s bottle, to save Natasha from the king. Without looking away, he tilts the bottle to his lips.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up. There’s a man sitting on the edge of his bed. His hair is a fading red-gold, and his face is lined and solemn.

“James?” The man says, gently touching his face. “Are you with us?”

His head hurts. His throat feels sore. He looks around the room.

“Darling,” the man says, tipping his face up. “How are you feeling?”

He - James - stares. He knows this man. He’s so familiar, the name right on the tip of his tongue. “You-?” his voice cracks, dry.

“James?” The man leans in. “Jamie? Don’t you know who I am?”

He shakes his head. The man smiles at him, wry and sad.

“The physician said this might keep happening,” he says. “I’m Alexander. Your husband.”

James blinks. Oh. That’s right.

Alexander smooths a strand of hair away from his forehead. “You’re in Cornwall. We’ve been married for several months. Do you remember what happened to you?”

He remembers - the wedding, the wedding night: Alexander clasping a jeweled pendant around his neck. He remembers laughing with a golden-haired lover, riding horses out on the moor.

“You fell,” the king says, with the kind of patience that implies he’s said this many times before. His fingers are soft and warm on James’ face, running along the curve of his jaw. “You struck your head. You’ve been forgetting things.”

“I fell,” James echoes. He doesn’t remember falling. His head is pounding, a deep repeating stab in time with his heartbeat. He tries to sit up, but his vision goes white and he sinks back down. “What about-” he starts. “Where’s-” He can’t think. Someone with red hair? Blond?

“Shh,” the king hushes him, pulling the covers up and tucking them around him. “Go back to sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Alexander Pierce.
> 
>  **Real warning:** Pierce hits Bucky a couple of times, mostly unprovoked. There is a dubiously consensual sex scene that could be construed as marital rape, but it occurs offscreen and is not dwelled upon. At the end, Pierce gives Bucky a potion that takes away his memories, and then lies to him about the nature of their relationship.
> 
> Re: Infidelity in the tags: Bucky has sex with Steve while married to Pierce.
> 
> Once again, I put some further notes on this chapter [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1kJ_EBSlneFzfqkd1kL0pPXSJN7Zi7qWXgYSB5jWulCs/edit?usp=sharing) in a Google doc!


	3. Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam! Welcome to the story :D
> 
> This chapter is more of an interlude, apologies to anyone who was hoping for something more exciting. (Part Four will fill in what happened to Bucky and Natasha while Steve and Sam are doing their thing.)

 

 

am is late for Vespers. He’s usually punctual for prayers, but he’s spent several hours wandering the woods around St. Martin’s Abbey looking for his hawk. He’s not going back until he finds her.

“Mary!” He calls her name in the crisp fall air. “Mags! Where’d you go?” She’s never flown off like this before, and he’s worried she’s hurt or trapped somewhere.

The sun is going down, and the temperature with it. Sam wishes he’d thought to bring a lantern and a cloak. Leaves crunch under his feet, and he bites back a curse when he trips over a branch. He’s inspecting the scratch on his ankle when he hears hooves tramping through the underbrush. It doesn’t sound like a deer, and Sam heads toward the noise until a horse and rider appear among the trees.

The rider has Sam’s hawk on his arm. Sam puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles. The bird launches herself into the air, zipping over to land on his glove.

“There you are,” he says, stroking her feathers. “Thank you,” he calls to the man on the horse. “You found my hawk.”

“She was tangled in some briars,” the man says, guiding his horse over. “Wouldn’t leave me alone, after. Scratched the hell out of my arm.” He takes in Sam’s robes and looks sheepish. “Sorry, Father.”

“Oh, I’ve heard worse,” Sam laughs. He pats the horse’s white neck. “You’re awfully far off the road. Did you lose the path?”

“I did,” the man says. “I don’t suppose you could show me the way back?”

“Absolutely,” Sam says. He gestures with his gloved hand and his hawk flutters her wings in protest. “This way.”

“She’s a lovely bird,” the man comments as he follows Sam. “Very sharp talons.”

Sam ruffles her barred chest feathers. “I call her Mary Magdalene,” he says. “I’m Sam Wilson, by the way. Brother Samuel,” he corrects himself.

“Steve Rogers,” says the man. “Of Cornwall.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Sam says. “What brings you to Logres?”

“Logres?” Rogers says. “I thought this was Powys?”

“Not anymore,” Sam says. “All of Cambria is under King Fury’s banner now.” He shrugs. “Not that it makes much difference all the way out here.”

They emerge onto a beaten dirt path. “Here’s the road,” Sam says. “That way’s north, that way’s south.” He looks at Rogers. The light is almost gone, but he can make out a weary slump to the man’s shoulders. “Or,” he says. “It’s getting late. Perhaps you’d like to come to the abbey for the night?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Rogers says, but he perks up at the invitation.

Sam leads them up the road to the abbey compound. Rogers dismounts from his horse and leads it by the reins to give it a rest from carrying him. At closer quarters, Sam can see that the man is very tall, very blond, and very exhausted.

At the abbey, the other monks are finishing the night’s chores. They look up curiously when Sam swings open the gate and ushers Rogers in past the crumbling stone wall. Theirs is not a well-traveled road, and visitors to the abbey are rare.

“We don’t have stables, I’m afraid. I hope your horse won’t mind keeping our mule company,” Sam says.

Rogers laughs. “We’ve spent the night in far worse places.”

Sam hands Rogers off to Brother Thomas, who’s delighted to welcome the elegant warhorse into the mule’s enclosure. “He’s a fine beast,” the monk says, putting a hand out for the horse to sniff. “I’ll take good care of him for you.”

“Thank you, Father,” Rogers says.

Sam goes to put Mary Magdalene away in her mews. She flaps over to her perch and cocks her head at him. “Don’t give me that look,” he says. She blinks her round yellow eyes and squawks. “You scared me today, Mags,” Sam says, stroking a finger over her head.

He goes back to fetch Rogers, who takes his horse’s muzzle in his hands and whispers something that sounds like a ‘good night’ into its velvety ear. They head to the chapel where Father Simon, the abbot, is praying by candlelight.

“We missed you at service, Brother Samuel,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Sam says. “But I’ve brought us a guest.”

The abbot turns up his bald head to peer at them. “So you have,” he says. “A hand, please?” His knees creak as Sam hauls him to his feet. “Welcome to St. Martin’s,” he says to Rogers, clasping his hands. “What brings you to our abbey?”

“Thank you, Father,” Rogers says. “I’m just passing through, really.”

“On your way to King Fury’s court?” the abbot asks.

Rogers looks surprised. “I am,” he says. “How did you know?”

The abbot smiles wryly. “I know a knight when I see one. And it seems that every knight in Britannia is pledging himself to Camelot. I assume that’s your goal?”

Something like shame flickers across Rogers’ face. “It is,” he says. “If they’ll have me.”

“Well, I wish you well on your quest,” Father Simon says. “As for now, you look like you could use a meal and a place to sleep.”

They scrounge up an extra blanket for Rogers, who beds down in Sam’s cell. He falls asleep quickly, unbothered by the snores emanating from Brother Aaron on the other side of the thin wall.

In the morning, Rogers doesn’t join them for Matins, though he hovers outside the chapel looking forlorn. When the brothers exit the service and scatter to their tasks, Sam puts Rogers to work chopping firewood. He looks relieved to have something to do. Sam works nearby, repairing the fence around the garden, while a goat nibbles on the hem of his robe.

“We’re happy for visitors to join our prayers,” he comments.

The axe misses the log and Rogers curses under his breath.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Sam says carefully. “But you looked like you wanted to come in.”

The axe swings down and splits the wood. Rogers says something Sam can’t quite hear.

“Come again?”

“I don’t deserve to be there.”

Sam settles onto the grass, crossing his legs. He shoos away the goat. “Oh, really?” he says. “It sounds to me like it’d do you some good, Rogers.”

His mouth twists. “You’re probably right,” he says, lowering the axe and leaning on the handle. “And, please - it’s just Steve.”

“Well, Steve.” Sam pats the ground beside him. “Why don’t you tell old Brother Samuel what’s weighing you down?”

Steve sinks down, knees pulled up to his chest in a way that makes him look very young. “I came to Logres because I have nowhere else to go,” he says. “I can’t go back to Cornwall, by royal order. I did,” he swallows and looks down. “Something I’m not proud of.”

Sam waits, letting him gather his words.

“I fell in love with someone,” Steve says. “But he’s married. To the king.”

“Oh,” Sam says.

“His name is James,” Steve says with a small, terrible smile. “I’ve always called him Bucky. He’s - He loved me too. We had an affair,” Steve says. “We were discovered.” He stares down at his hands and exhales. “The worst part,” he confesses, voice strained. “Is that I’m not sorry, not really. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I love him. I just wish I hadn’t left him there.” He buries his face in his hands. “The king is not forgiving, and I’m afraid-” He can’t finish, and heaves a shuddering breath.

Sam squeezes his shoulder. “You know how that sounds to me?” he asks.

“Immoral? Foolish?”

“Human.”

Steve looks at him.

“We’ve all done things we regret,” Sam says. “It’s in our nature.”

Steve hunches forward. “There are so many things I wish I had done differently.”

Picking up a stone from the ground, Sam turns it over and over in his hand. “You know, I wasn’t always a monk,” he says. “I was a knight, like you.”

“You were?”

“I served the old king of Powys,” Sam says. “I fought in many battles. I lost good friends, and I got tired of fighting. So I came here.” He flicks the stone away. “It was hard, leaving what I knew, and I was afraid that I wasn’t - good enough. That the things I had done were too big to be overcome. But I found peace, here. Purpose.” He rubs his neck. “What I’m trying to say is that you can move forward. You can’t change the things you regret, but you can move forward in a different direction. You can find something new.”

Steve’s voice is rough. “I’m not sure I want something new,” he says. “I want him.” He hangs his head, and wipes at his eyes. “But thank you, Father.”

“Please,” Sam says. I’m no one’s Father. Call me Sam.”

Steve gives him a watery smile. “Thank you,” he says again. “Really.”

“No problem,” he says, getting up and dusting off his robes. He offers Steve a hand up. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered the monastic life?”

This surprises a laugh out of Steve. “I don't think I have the temperament for it,” he says. “I’m much better suited for fighting. I’ve been told I don’t really know when to stop.” He picks up the axe again, positions a log to be cut. “If King Fury won’t take me on, though, who knows?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” Sam says. “From what I’ve heard he’s a fair and just ruler, and you seem like a good man. I’m sure he’d be proud to have you among his knights.”

Steve twists his mouth like he isn’t sure, but he looks grateful.

In the afternoon, Sam takes Mary Magdalene out into the woods to let her hunt. She wings off in search of prey, and Sam dwells on the conversation with Steve. It’s been a long time since he’s talked with anyone about his old life. He thinks about bright mail, charging horses, and the joy of victory. He thinks about war, about the weight of a sword in his hands, about the smell of blood. He thinks about his friend, Riley, who had been dearer to him than a brother.

A cold wind sets the trees swaying. Everywhere around him the woods are orange and brown. In a few weeks the leaves will be gone. He tucks his hands into his robes and sends up a prayer for Riley’s soul.

He and Mary catch two rabbits, which are a welcome addition to that night’s stew. In the evening, Sam sees Steve disappear with the abbot. Whatever is said between them, it seems to reinforce what Sam told him before, and Steve looks a lot lighter.

 

* * *

 

A fortnight later, Steve is still at St. Martin’s. The abbey is glad to have him; he’s a hard worker, and many of the monks are elderly and can’t get about their chores like they used to. He seems increasingly restless, though, and Sam knows he’ll depart soon enough.

The abbot shares his opinion, and calls Sam aside one night. They squeeze into the little nook in the chapel that serves as Father Simon’s office. The abbot pulls out a dusty book and shows Sam where someone has drawn a map of the area inside the cover. He points to various places and tells Sam which roads are better to travel on at this time of year.

Sam listens politely, confused. Eventually, he interrupts: “This is wonderful advice, Father, but why are you telling this to me?”

Father Simon rubs his chin. “Well, you are going with him, aren’t you?”

Sam gapes.

“Don’t give me that face, boy. I’ve seen your eyes on the road, lately.” He leans back in his rickety wooden chair. “Whenever news comes of King Fury’s doings, you light up. And you’ve become quite close with Sir Rogers - more than with any of your brothers here.”

“Father, if I’ve given the impression that I’m not happy -”

“Oh, no,” the abbot says. His face softens. “I know you’re happy here, Samuel. And I’m not trying to send you away.”

It certainly feels like it. Sam’s not sure where the abbot got the idea that he was considering following Steve to Fury’s court. He’s enjoyed talking to Steve and trading stories, and he’s been thinking more about his old, life, it’s true. The sounds of battle have even intruded on his dreams.

Father Simon regards him and then, with some effort, pulls out from behind a shelf a large, dusty object. It’s a shield, with the Wilson falcon and sun. His sword is there, too. The abbot hands them over. “I know you wanted these destroyed, but I kept them. I had a feeling you’d want them again.”

Sam brushes his fingers through the dust on the shield, curls his fingers around the sword handle. He unsheathes it for the first time in years. On his first day here he’d stumbled into the abbey, shield and sword in hand, still bloody. He threw his sword in the dirt and begged for sanctuary.

“I’m afraid your mail has since rusted,” Father Simon says. “Otherwise I’d have that for you, too.”

The leather scabbard is starting to crack, but the blade seems to be in good condition. The paint on the shield looks as bright as it did when he laid it down for what he thought would be the last time.

“Father,” Sam says in a low voice. “I renounced my old life. I swore myself to service-”

“There are different kinds of service,” the abbot says.

The sword feels strange in his hand after years of holding nothing more dangerous than farming tools. He puts it back in its sheath. The abbot rests a wrinkled hand on his.

“If you truly wish to stay,” he says. “Stay. I would be delighted. If, in your heart, you want to go - know that we will always welcome you back.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. It takes a few tries to get his throat to work. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally.

He takes the sword and shield with him to his cell, that night. By the light of a single candle he regards them. He knows he could spend the rest of his life at St. Martin’s and never regret it, but he can’t deny that the familiar weight of his sword stirred something in him.

Sam slides his hand through the strap and hefts the shield. He’s still standing there holding it when Steve comes in from helping Brother Thomas round up the chickens.

“Sam,” he says, startled. “Those are yours?”

“Were,” Sam says. “Are still, I guess. Father Simon kept them.”

“Why have you gotten them out?”

“He gave them to me,” Sam says. “He thinks I want to go with you when you leave.”

Steve blinks at him, surprised and eager. “Do you?”

Sam touches the red and gold falcon on the shield, thinking about Camelot, about snapping banners and just kings and the knight beside him. “You know what? I think I do.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t have much to carry between them. The life of a monk didn’t lend itself to material things, and Steve had left Cornwall with nothing but his horse and the clothes on his back. They’ll make quite the pair on the road, Sam thinks: two knights with one shield, one sword, and one horse between them. And one bird, because there’s no way Sam’s going without Mary.

It’s as hard as Sam expected, saying goodbye to the brothers. It’s harder than he thought, saying goodbye to Father Simon. The abbot is old, he thinks, as the man sees them off at the gate. Even if Sam comes back to the abbey, there’s no guarantee Father Simon will still be here. The abbot senses the direction of his thoughts and embraces him. “Don’t look so glum,” he says. “We’ll see each other again. One way or another.” He gives them some food for the road and a pair of old cloaks. “Have a safe journey, both of you,” he says. “Go with God.”

They head south, on foot, leading Roger’s horse Aquila behind them. It shouldn’t take more than a few days to reach Logres’ capital in Camelot.

The monotony of the road dulls Sam’s terrified excitement. Steve becomes tense and withdrawn. When his moody silences become oppressive, Sam finds that prompting him to talk about Bucky loosens him up. Sam now knows a lot more than he needs to about a man he’ll probably never meet, but Steve is always brighter after telling Sam about him. Sam can’t exactly condone having an affair with another man’s husband, but he feels for Steve. It sounds like he and his Irish prince loved each other dearly, and would have been happy together in another life.

The roads get wider and more trafficked. They begin to encounter other travelers: merchants and peasants and knights, most of them also heading toward Camelot. After several days, they reach a high point on the road where they can see the lights of the castle in the distance. It’s late in the day and they’re tired, so they decide to camp for the night and reach Camelot in the morning.

Steve pokes at the fire, staring into the flames. Sam wraps his cloak around himself, and is drifting off to sleep when Steve’s voice wakes him.

“Thanks for listening to me talk about him.”

Sam rubs his eyes. “What was that?”

“Bucky. You’ve let me talk your ear off about him. It really - It means a lot to me that you care.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says. He’s spent a lot of time with Father Simon talking about his regrets. He understands how it helps. Laying his head back down, he listens to the crackling fire until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

A little after dawn, Sam is rousing Mary and getting ready to travel the last bit of distance to the castle. Steve was awake long before him and is standing on the road with his horse, staring out at Camelot.

“Ready?” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Sam,” Steve says, low-voiced. “I can’t go.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to go back. I should never have left him there.” His eyes are heavy and shadowed. Sam’s not sure he slept at all.

“Steve,” he says. “I don’t think this is the time for second thoughts. What exactly do you think you’re going to do?”

“I’ll come up with something,” he says grimly.

Sam runs a hand over his face. It’s too early for this. “Look,” he says. “Why don’t take some time to think-”

“I promised him,” Steve says. “I promised I’d always come back to him.”

Sam sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Turn around. Go back to Cornwall.” He crosses his arms. “But I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Steve says. “No. Sam, I can’t ask that of you.”

“I could’ve left the abbey any time I wanted,” Sam points out. “I left with you. You’re my friend. I’m not letting you do something this stupid alone.”

Steve is speechless.

“Keep in mind,” Sam says. “We’re not exactly equipped for a long journey, much less for charging into battle. What do you say we head over there,” he tilts his head toward Camelot. “And ask for some help?”

Steve says: “What will we do if King Fury won’t help us?”

“We come up with another plan,” Sam says. “But at least it’s worth a try.”

 

* * *

 

They wind through the town at the foot of Camelot, and give their names to the herald at the gate. When they ask for an audience with the king, the herald looks them over dubiously. His skepticism is understandable: Steve looks worn and slightly wild and Sam’s still dressed as a monk. Despite this, the herald takes their request, and within a few minutes the gate is lowered.

“Welcome,” greets a well-dressed man in the courtyard. He introduces himself as Fury’s seneschal, Coulson, and clasps Steve’s hand. “Sir Rogers,” he says. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“It does?” Steve says.

“Your name is highly regarded in Cornwall. King Fury takes an interest in the deeds of knights from all around Britannia,” Coulson explains. “I believe there was some business with a dragon, earlier this year?”

“There was,” Steve says, but he catches Sam’s eye. Fury can’t be that well-informed if he hasn’t heard Steve was banished.

Servants appear to take Steve’s horse, and Mary allows herself to be transferred to a falconer’s glove. Coulson offers them the chance to bathe and rest before they go before the king, but Steve declines.

Following Coulson into the king’s hall, Sam feels quite shabby against the colorful tiles and gilded statues, but Steve strides forward in a determined way that makes Sam straighten his own shoulders.

King Fury presides over an enormous table, flanked by a handful of knights. He’s an older man, solemnly dressed with grey in his beard. His left eye is badly scarred.

Steve bows, stiff-backed, and Sam echoes the gesture.

The king sits back in his chair. “Welcome to Logres, Sir Rogers.” His eyes flick to Sam. “And companion. What brings you to Camelot?”

“Sir,” Steve says. “I - _We_ have come to you for help.”

Fury tilts his head. “You’ve traveled a long way just to ask for a favor.”

“We came here originally to pledge our fealty to you.” This gets interested murmurs from the knights. “And we will. If you’ll have us. But, Your Majesty, someone I love is in danger, and anything you could do- ” Steve struggles with his words. “I would be forever in your debt.”

“Your king in Cornwall could not help you?”

“King Alexander would rather see me dead,” Steve says, rigid.

“And why is that?”

Steve hesitates, but he says, almost steadily: “I had an affair with his husband.”

A dark-haired man next to Fury lets out a bark of startled laughter. “The White Knight of Cornwall cuckolded the king?” he says. “That’s the most fantastic scandal I’ve heard all year.”

“Stark,” Fury says warningly, eyes locked with Steve’s.

Steve says: “I know I haven’t shown good judgement, or the kind of behavior befitting my rank. And I have no right to ask anything of you, but-” He goes to his knees. “Please,” he says. “Help me save him.”

“Rise,” the king says, and Steve does, fists clenched. “I take it your friend who needs rescue,” Fury says slowly. “Is the king’s husband?”

“Yes,” Steve says. Stark stifles another laugh.

“Sir Rogers, I am willing to overlook your - lapse in judgement. I would be glad to welcome you to the Round Table. But,” he says. “ I fail to see why I should interfere in your romantic entanglements.”

“You would make an ally in the queen of Ireland,” Steve says.

Fury raises an eyebrow. “You can speak for her?”

“I can assure you she has no love for King Alexander, and would be glad to see her son freed from him.”

“Ireland would be a strong ally, but I would make an even more powerful enemy out of Cornwall,” the king says.

“Cornwall is already your enemy,” Steve says. “Right now Alexander is planning a campaign against Wessex, but his ultimate goal is to take Logres.”

Sam is not the only one who looks at Steve with surprise.

“You know this for sure?” Fury says.

“I do,” Steve says. “I would have been the one commanding the army. Alexander has long desired to be High King over Britannia, and he considers you his rival.”

“I’ve heard of his ambitions,” the king says. He crooks a finger to summon Coulson. “Show our guests to their rooms,” he says. “I need to speak with my knights.”

 

* * *

 

Washed and fed, they meet in Steve’s room. Steve paces, frustrated and impatient, while Sam leans against a wall, arms crossed. He’s put his monk’s robes aside in favor of some very comfortable borrowed clothes.

“Have you thought of what we should do,” Sam asks. “If the king refuses?”

“We could go to Ireland,” Steve says. “The queen won’t stand to see James treated badly.” He sighs and sits down heavily on the bed. “But Bucky’ll kill me if I involve his mother in another war.” He rubs his face. “Sam,” he says. “If Fury says no - I can’t ask you to risk your life for this. You should stay here. The king has already said he’ll take you on -”

“Are you kidding?” Sam says. “From what you’ve told me, if you enter Cornwall you’ll be killed on sight. I’m not letting you take on a whole kingdom by yourself.”

Steve looks ready to argue, but suddenly the fight leaves him. He half-smiles. “Thank you,” he says.

There’s a knock on the door. Coulson is on the other side.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he says. “But the king would like to speak with you.” He’s looking at Sam.

“Me?”

“Yes. If you would come with me, please?”

Sam exchanges a puzzled look with Steve, but follows the seneschal out of the room. He’s not taken to the great hall, but a smaller receiving room where the king is waiting for him alone.

“Sir Wilson,” Fury greets him. His hands are clasped behind his back.

“You wanted to speak to me, Your Majesty?”

“I do,” Fury says. He inclines his head. “Wilson. I recognize that name. You were a knight of Powys?”

“For many years,” Sam says. “I’ve been living in a monastery since.”

The king looks thoughtful. He asks how Sam came to meet Steve, and Sam tells him.

“And you’ll vouch for him, despite knowing him for only a few weeks?”

“I will,” Sam says. “I think he has a good heart, and he’s hardly the only one who’s ever loved someone he shouldn’t have.” He shrugs and then lets his shoulders drop. “I don’t know much about his prince past what he’s told me, but I believe Sir Rogers is trying to do right by him. And I don’t want to see him killed for it.”

The king turns to peer out the narrow window. “You looked surprised when he said King Alexander is planning to attack Logres. He hadn’t said anything about it to you before?”

“He didn’t,” Sam says. “But he never had much reason to. I don't think he was lying.”

Fury glances back at him shrewdly. “He wouldn’t be the first man to start a war over a pretty face.” He returns his attention out the window. “Coulson!” he calls, and the seneschal pokes his head in the doorway. “You may escort Sir Wilson back to his rooms.” Without turning around, he says: “Tell Sir Rogers I’ll have a decision for him in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Fury calls for them early the next day. They meet him again in the great hall, this time without his knights present. Coulson hovers in the corner of the room.

The king looks them over. “I won’t leave you in suspense,” he says. “Sir Rogers, I cannot make a move against Cornwall at this time.” He holds up a hand against Steve’s protest. “I believe you are telling the truth about King Alexander’s intentions, but he has done nothing against Logres yet. There’s no point breaking the peace between us before it’s necessary.”

Steve hangs his head and Sam puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I understand,” Steve says dully.

“If you’re willing,” the king says. “I would like to invite you to become a knight of Camelot. Both of you.” He sits back and adds: “I may reconsider the situation with Cornwall in the spring.”

They glance at each other. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “But I can’t accept.”

“I thought as much,” Fury says. He looks at Sam. “And you?”

“I’m with him,” Sam says.

“Well,” Fury says. “If you change your minds, know that the offer stands.”

They bow, and Steve thanks him again. “We won’t trouble you any longer, sir. We’ll leave today.”

“Before you go,” the king says. He beckons at Coulson, and the seneschal steps forward.

“Sirs,” he says. He exchanges a look with the king. “As a gesture of goodwill, Logres would like to offer you whatever supplies you might need for your journey.”

It’s not an army, but Sam and Steve leave Camelot better furnished than they entered. Their old clothes are tucked away, replaced by heavy tunics and coats of mail. Steve has a sword buckled around his waist, and a shield bright with fresh paint. Sam is mounted on a tall chestnut gelding, a placid beast who barely twitches his ears when Mary shrieks and settles on Sam’s wrist.

As Camelot disappears behind them, Sam says: “I guess we’re getting a ship to Ireland.”

“No,” Steve says. His jaw is set, and he holds himself tall and straight in the saddle. He looks different, armed and armored, dangerous and determined. There’s a reckless gleam in his eye. “We’re going to rescue Bucky ourselves.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, worldbuilding and historical notes are [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/17yiQPdbypHUVaGJGoKZmNBZf_9fx_vLwaNPGlhMAel0/edit?usp=sharing).


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